Pyrate Assassin

I

The white fullness of its sails belied the hollow blackness of the ship’s future. It emerged as a distant speck, interrupting the broad horizon separating two distinct blues—Caribbean Sea and cloudless sky. And for a brief time, Espíritu de Los Santos sailed calmly, unnoticed.

The young spotter at the crow’s nest of the pirate ship Red Knight turned to scan yet another section of the white-capped waters. The warm, stiff breeze played with his unruly hair. His eyes passed and then quickly returned to the far-off image. “Sail ho,” he shouted to the main deck, some thirty yards below.

“Where away?” Harker yelled back.

“Five points to starboard, Cap’n.”

Given his lower angle and inferior vision, it was a few minutes before the vessel came into Harker’s view. He turned to his quartermaster, Yaugaan De Graaf. “Merchant or warship—what think you?”

De Graaf squinted at the white fleck, unable to differentiate its masts. “Let it be merchant,” he grinned.

As the minutes wore on, Harker noticed his prey’s white sails began reflecting the descending sun differently. The unaccompanied ship was turning—seeking to avoid contact, he surmised. Likely a merchant, then. English? French? Dutch? Spanish? Its flag wasn’t yet large enough to

tell. No matter, whatever sailed these waters was fair prey.

“Full sails,” Harker shouted. “Lively now.” He turned to De Graaf, “Let the chase begin.”

Several crew members scrambled up the rigging to unfurl the remainder of the sails. Others manned the clewlines. The soiled and tattered canvas sheets billowed in the wind before being pulled taut and secured. The tiller spun, maneuvering Red Knight into an intercepting direction.

With the sun virtually tasting water, the gap between the two ships finally narrowed to easy firing distance. Harker noticed the Spanish-flagged merchant sailed low in the water, heavy with cargo. That explained his closing on it so quickly.

“Bring her alongside. Ports open,” he shouted. “Hoist the red.”

His drapeau-de-guerre was blood-red. The color of death. It was a message to all of his prey—resist and you shall pay the ultimate price: your blood. The rough-sewn, crimson flag jerkily ascended the mizzenmast as Red Knight slid alongside its target’s stern. The men below, hunching in the barely four-foot-high gun deck, finished priming and loading their cannons. The gunports flipped open, hammering against the ship’s starboard side. Long and loaded black-iron cylinders rolled loudly into forward position, noses out. Gunners secured the carriages’ rear wheels.

Espíritu de los Santos hailed from Cádiz. It was returning home from a lengthy voyage with a variety of mostly South American goods, including jewels and silver plate. It also bore eighteen chests containing gold and silver received in exchange for merchandise and supplies brought from the motherland and sold to merchants throughout the Southern Sea islands and along the Spanish Main. Captain Luis Rodriguez, the nephew of King Philip II of Spain, stood on the foredeck watching the Red Knight maneuver into position. Given his royal lineage, Rodriguez was a much-favored trader, sailing frequently to this treasured part of the new world. A distinguished-looking gentleman, he wore an elaborately embroidered black-velvet, V-waisted doublet, embellished with brass buttons. His well-groomed black beard came to a sharp point below his chin. “Prepare to fire,” he shouted. He turned to his young aide, Julio, “I worry our attempt to outrun this pirate was unwise.”

“Was there a choice, sir?”

“Perhaps not. The men are ill-prepared to repel an attack by a band of brigands in a well-armed ship. Unfortunately, our cargo constrained us like tight reins on a horse.”

Harker’s cannons roared, delivering four-pound iron balls chased by streaking orange flames and light-smothering smoke. A few were aimed high, targeting Espíritu’s masts and sails; others targeted the gun deck. None were aimed below the waterline. Harker needed the cargo afloat, not sinking.

Though it returned fire bravely, Espíritu’s mainmast took a sharp blow, spraying the main deck with knife-edged, wooden shards. The ship’s sides were peppered, opening jagged-edged holes along the gun deck and sending unlucky gunners screaming and flailing

backward to the far side.

Men on both ships’ main decks traded shots from pistols and crossbows. Grappling hooks flew across the gap, gripping the sides of the Spanish merchant like a hungry hawk’s claws. Harker’s men furiously hauled the two vessels together, ducking projectiles. A defiled Espíritu de Los Santos would soon yield her treasures.

_____

Head down, William Tovery strode hastily along the cobblestones,

holding his wet cavalier hat tightly against the challenging wind. His long navy overcoat was drenched, flapping at his knees. The bell mounted above rang out as he flung open the door to Orion’s Tavern. “Bloody Hell,” he cursed loudly, stepping inside. He shook off the water and hung his hat and coat on a wall hook.

Captain Garret Connachan laughed at the sight. She’d done the very same thing herself, only minutes earlier. Seated at a table near the back, she now warmed her hands on a fresh cup of hot black koffei—a beverage Spanish Captain Bravo introduced her to during her time in the Southern Seas. She’d brought supplies of the dark, hardened beans back to London, convincing Orion’s owner to purchase some. But aside from Garret and a few of her associates, he enjoyed little success in selling the hot, bitter liquid.

Garret rose to greet him. She was fashionably dressed. Naval style. Though her vest, pants and boots were masculine, she sported a

playfully bright green blouse with a white ruff at the collar. The green complemented her eyes. Her auburn hair flowed longer than she’d ever worn it—evidence she now openly and fully embraced her womanhood. Presenting as male was finally behind her. She had Admiral Drake to thank for it. That and her own efforts to prove herself.

Her skin bore a reddish tint, the result of spending considerable time outdoors—practicing daily with sword and pistol, hunting foxes, and overseeing construction of her new flagship. The relaxed expression on her face was reflective of someone happy with their life.

Garret’s uncommon appearance drew continual attention from the tavern’s patrons, all male. She sensed their interest but chose to ignore

them.

William waved to the owner and pointed to Garret’s koffei. “A

cup, George, if you please.”

Garret watched as William strode toward her with the gait and swagger of a seasoned sailor. He was the closest thing to a brother she had. The two first met while serving as midshipmen under Drake. Through numerous voyages and naval engagements with the Admiral, each had earned their captaincy. Garret’s had proven more challenging to come by, though she’d been awarded it sooner. Still bordering the age of twenty, her lengthy list of accomplishments already exceeded what most men ordinarily achieved in their lifetimes.

William pulled back a well-worn wooden chair across from her. “Give me ocean spray over this damned constant rain.”

“Good day to you as well, William.” Garret greeted him with a firm handshake. Though having long ago come clean with her crewmates about her gender, she still selectively maintained mannerisms that were male in nature. It helped avoid undesired awkwardness among the men. She was committed to simply being ‘one of them’, particularly onboard ship.

“Apologies.” William sat. “I am quite ready for my next voyage. I find the firm ground underfoot most discomforting.”

“Agreed.” Garret sipped her koffei. “It has been far too long, William.” She noticed his curly, dark-brown hair was neatly knotted in a seaman’s tail, much like she herself wore at sea. He now sported a well-trimmed beard, accenting his similarly reddish-tanned face. His deep brown eyes twinkled as he smiled.

“Too long indeed. I thank you for the invitation. I imagine you have something specific you wish to discuss.”

“You know me well. Better than anyone, I might say.”

“Except Pantas,” William winked. “God rest his soul.” Pantas, the Sultan of Ternate’s Ambassador to England, was her former lover.

“God rest his soul,” Garret echoed. “He knew me differently, William, not necessarily better.” She smiled although the pain of loss still lurked deep within. But it was okay for William to mention his name. The three had been friends. She sipped her koffei and placed the cup on the table. She returned to the matter at hand, “Well then, let me share why I have asked you here.”

“Please…”

“I am in the early stages of forming a small fleet, bound for the Southern Seas. I intend to return with a portion of King Philip’s purse.”

“Drake’s disease,” grinned William. “We have both caught it.”

Garret laughed. “Then join me.”

George placed a cup of koffei in front of William. He warmed

his hands on it. “It would be an honor to sail with you again, Garret. Besides you and Thomas, there is no one else with whom I prefer to sail.” The ‘Thomas’ he referred to was Drake’s younger brother, their former fellow midshipman. “But I am afraid I intend to serve with Her

Majesty’s navy.”

Garret masked her disappointment. “I see. So you fancy climbing the rigging of naval command.”

“I do.” He sipped his koffei.

“Rather than enjoy the freedom of pursuing interests of your own choosing.”

“The possibility of becoming an Admiral interests me.”

“Ah, yes…societal standing, fame…pensions.”

“You must admit, Garret, privateers like us are perceived by naval officers as mere second-class sailors. Besides, what freedom is there in privateering when it demands a commission from the Queen, or others, to

pursue their interests?”

“I shall find ways to have my own freedom,” Garret responded. I have a particular score to settle, as you well know.” There were actually two scores she hoped to settle. One was to avenge the massacre of a dozen men under her leadership, by the villagers of Santiago del Príncipe. She alone escaped that slaughter. The other, and harder score to avenge, was the assassination of Pantas. While she suspected the Spanish, there seemed little likelihood of ever discovering the actual perpetrator.

“Might I ask how you are funding this venture of yours?”

“I have shared little of my personal affairs with anyone. Other than Pantas, of course.” She grinned as she reached for her koffei. “My grandfather was counselor to numerous merchants engaged in international trade. His efforts added greatly to the significant wealth and property he had already inherited from his mother. When he died, I became sole heir and executor. The revenue generated from farming alone is substantial. I am drawing on a small portion of that to fund this

voyage.”

“I see.”

“But I have also gained the support of several investors.” She leaned in and smiled, “Their eyes gleam at the thought of Spanish treasure delivering outsized returns on their investments.” She sat back. “Assisting the Admiral in securing his own funding gave me access to his sources.”

“No doubt your relationship with the Queen helped as well.” Garret nodded. William continued, “I envy your financial position. It must be rather freeing to pursue your own agenda.”

“It is. Still, wealth must be carefully managed. I employ others for that purpose. I must admit, however…not all agree with my decision to invest in a private fleet.”

“And Thomas? Have you approached him about joining you?”

“Dear Thomas. The man is so dedicated to preserving the memory and estate of his legendary brother that he has committed to staying in Devon. At least for the foreseeable future. He also serves the Queen, as an

advisor on military and diplomatic matters.”

“So I understand. I see him on occasion when he journeys to London. We often reminisce about our days at sea. I always imagined he would continue in his brother’s footsteps.”

“That is no longer his path. He made it quite clear to me.”

“So, without Thomas, or me, you shall be in need of new

leadership.”

Garret smiled, wryly, “I have not given up on you yet, William.”

II

A maniacal mob poured over the sides of Espíritu de los Santos. Knowing that fear itself was a powerful weapon, many sported smeared stripes of black dubbin on their faces. Others went further, mimicking the appearance of a skull by applying a thin layer of animal fat to their faces, dusting on white flour, and drawing rings of black dubbin around their eyes and mouth. The screaming horde’s thunderous rush unnerved its adversaries. Still, they were met by a barrage of pistol shots and pikes, wounding and killing a few. Some Spaniards retreated to the far side, fumbling to reload pistols. Others clashed swords with the barbarous wave in self-defense.

Prior to boarding, Harker had offered words of encouragement to his men, ‘Those petrified by terror are no match for unconstrained violence’. Fueled by his sentiment, the raiders mashed and slashed their way through the front line before most of the defenders’ pistols were ready to re-fire. Though slowed by fallen bodies, dismembered body parts, and a

deck slick with blood, the onslaught was unstoppable.

Standing at the bow, Spanish Captain Rodriguez fired two pistol shots in the air. His aide, Julio, stood next to him furiously waving a white sheet, signaling surrender. “Rendición!” Rodriguez shouted over the roaring din.

“Enough!” yelled Harker, thrusting his cutlass high in the air. It

was covered to the hilt in blood, some of which dripped onto his boot. He threw up his left arm as well, repeating his call, “Enough!”

The noise of battle died. Harker, his left eye covered by a crimson patch, looked around and smiled at his men. He walked toward Rodriguez with a confident swagger. His roughly bearded chin and bronzed leather skin were framed by long, jet-black hair flowing down below his neck in unruly strands. He was tall, strong, and menacing-looking. Battle scars etched on his face and arms spoke to his fearlessness, if not to the ruthlessness simmering beneath the surface. Most who dared challenge him met their end swiftly. Brutally. The fact that he once sailed with the legendary Drake also brought respect from his fellow pirates, though the Admiral had unceremoniously discharged Harker from his fleet.

As the pirate leader ascended the steps to the foredeck, Capitán Rodriguez nodded to his men, seeking to assure them their lives would be spared. He slowly removed his sword from its scabbard and held it flat, crosswise in his hands, palms up. Harker stopped within three feet. Rodriguez bowed his head, extending his arms and offering up the sword. By the time he looked up again, the bloody point of Harker’s cutlass was rushing at his face.

Some of Espíritu de Los Santos’ crew turned their heads as their captain’s limp body crumpled to the deck. Two vomited. One involuntarily soiled his breeches.

Harker stood over Rodriguez, watching the man’s last breath

deflate his chest. He turned slowly toward the crowd, peering down on them from the ship’s bow. Thrusting both arms in the air, he shouted in a heavily crusted voice, “No one challenges the Red Knight and walks away freely. Let no one doubt our resolve.”

Julio knelt on the foredeck, head down and shivering as though awaiting his own end. Harker glanced at him, deciding he was too young to die this day. He descended the steps and walked toward the remaining Spaniards, all of whom had earlier dropped their weapons and pressed back to the taffrail. “Tesoro?” he asked of them [treasure?]. No-one moved. He walked up to one of the smaller men, swept him up by the armpit and crotch, and hoisted him overboard. His screams drowned with the splash.

“Tesoro?” Harker yelled, louder.

“Si Capitán.” A grizzled old seaman stepped forward. He waved his arm toward the cargo hatch, nodding his head to suggest Harker follow.

Harker motioned to De Graaf, a hulking, half-Black, half-Dutch man who befriended him during their days with Drake. “Follow him. Let me know what you find.”

De Graaf placed the tip of his sword against the old Spaniard, nodding in the direction of the hatch. Every bit as ruthless as Harker, De Graaf was less refined. Unpredictable. The Spaniard seemed to sense that. He moved briskly.

Harker pointed to two other pirates, indicating they should follow De Graaf. He scanned the eyes of the rest of his men. “Which of these Spaniards deserve to pay a price for challenging us?”

Two men were pulled forward, protesting vigorously. Beads of sweat glistened on their foreheads as Harker approached. “You are filth.” He spit in one man’s face. “You shall pay dearly for your actions.” He ordered the men holding them to bind them to the mainmast. As they were

pulled away, he addressed the rest of the Spaniards. “Habla Inglés?”

One man stepped forward, hesitantly. He was well-groomed, unlike an ordinary seaman. “I say Inglés, Capitán. Pequeño.” He held up his hand, narrowing the gap between his thumb and index finger. Harker looked him up and down. The man was of medium build, dark-haired, and neatly shaven; probably in his late twenties. He wore a doublet over a surprisingly clean, white blouse. “Mi nombré es Cristiano. Soy tesorero. This,” he waved his arm around the ship, “barco comercial.”

Harker understood. This man was in charge of the ship’s financials. He pulled him by the arm to the ship’s far side, not wishing to have their conversation overheard. “Tell me, Cristiano, cuanto dinero?”

“I not…cierto, Capitán. Quizás,” his eyes peered upwards, as if counting, “acerca de 80,000 escudos y 120,000 reales: Ingresos de venta…sale, si? Pay for marineros, y dinero de las oficiales. I not know…ahorros”, he reached into his pocket, “de marineros. Además,” he held up two fingers, “dos cofres lingotes de plata…bars, si? Y uno de oro.”

Harker maintained a stone face but inside his heart raced. He understood this was a small fortune. He needed to keep his men from learning the full value, to secure more than his rightful share. He sensed the treasurer might be helpful in that regard. The man would be spared.