Pyrate: Black Flag

Kat’s log book

May 17, 1601

… The island rose from midnight blue water, in the face of exploding sea mist, as though in defiance of those who might come. Its soaring gray cliffs emerged as if cast out by those who ruled the depths of the Caribbean Sea. As I write this, I can still hear the crash of seawater pummeling the outcroppings of jagged rock. I remember Master’s Mate Drago shouting to be heard above the howling wind and thundering waves, “The Spanish call it Isla del Diablo,” he told me. “A sailor’s worst nightmare,” he added.

I did not need his explanation. The sights alone spoke to the treachery of this ominous place.

“Note the shoals!” Drago yelled to the helmsman. Again, unnecessary; the showering, windswept spray from colliding waves gave the island’s dangerous barrier all the visibility it needed. Many of the craggy pillars of charcoal-colored stone disappeared with the water’s rush, only to resurface as menacing, inanimate soldiers defending their island. They seemed eager to rip the bottom from any vessel foolish enough to approach, leaving the wind and water to toss remnants of its carcass onto the shore.

With Pandora’s sails skillfully trimmed and anchors at the ready, our crew looked on in awed silence, mesmerized by the deathly images. I could see it in their eyes—the sense that our captain, Garret Connachan had lost her bloody mind. Even I questioned her sensibility, praying she had no intent to challenge this menacing gray demon.

“Steady as she goes,” Garret bellowed forcefully, above all the clamor.

“Mother of Satan,” Drago swore.

Pandora continued on, paralleling the coastline, bearing lethal cargo we sought to unload—human cargo of the vilest form.

_____

The hulking pyrate sat knees-bent on the damp floor of the cargo-hold, where water beaded and dripped like a ship’s sweat. Pandora’s extreme pitch and roll forced his rusting shackles to etch blood-bearing furrows on his wrists and ankles. The wrist-manacles did the most damage; their maker never imagined them being worn by a man with such massive forearms. Still, Yauggan De Graaf barely noticed the sting. His body already bore the scars of a man who devoured pain for a living.

“Damn you!” he yelled at the sudden bite. The oversized gray rat retreated quickly at the kick of his leg. “I have enough to worry about, varmint.”

Alone and weaponless, De Graaf fully expected a merciless fate. He had no doubt Captain Connachan had cheerfully considered several options to exact her revenge. After all, she’d already proven herself to be the witch he’d always sensed she was.

Despite the presence onboard of a known executioner—the behemoth Musa—De Graaf doubted beheading was the Witch’s preference. Too quick a death. That was precisely why he’d decided it would be his favored demise, if given a choice. But that was unlikely. No doubt Connachan wanted him to suffer at length.

‘A drowning at sea would be more to her liking,’ he thought. Being thrown overboard in chains would yield a slower, more miserable death. Still, there was only momentary exhibition in that. Hanging was much more likely. Not only did it take longer, but it brought with it the spectacle of a jerking body and the public shame of defecation.

The more he thought about it, the more he worried the Witch might even resort to keelhauling—scraping his body around and under the ship’s hull. It was a punishment he, himself, once meted out to the captain of the Santo De Cristo. He had to admit, her doing that seemed eerily poetic. But he didn’t think Connachan had the stomach for watching a slab of bloody flesh and organs drip all over Pandora’s deck at the finish. That sight had left many of his own hardened crew forcing out their innards.

‘Whatever the Witch chooses,’ De Graaf thought, ‘I shall die with honor.’ It was the only way the most feared pyrate in the Caribbean should go. Having blazed brightly, being snuffed out within minutes seemed far better than growing old, dissolving like a crumbled ember in a wasting fire. That morbid thought brought him momentary warmth in this dark, foul hold, fighting off diseased and hungry rats.

_____

The architecture, vibrance and vivid colors of Cartagena never failed to captivate first-time visitors to Spain’s Caribbean jewel. But in this moment, there was no charm whatsoever in Governor Acuña’s opulent office. He and General Serezo stood on either side of the gold-embossed ebony table that comfortably seated sixteen. It was here that the two men commonly planned activities requiring military support, including the General’s participation in several construction projects authorized by King Philip II. Many of those projects were intended to enhance the city’s defenses, including an impregnable wall and military installations. The building of the Governor’s palatial new residence was also underway.

Despite all their past collaboration, Governor Acuña was now furious with Serezo. Together they’d planned the exchange of doubloons for Viceroy Valdez, one of the King’s closest personal friends. Valdez was believed to have been kidnapped and held for ransom by English pyrates, led by a woman many referred to as The Witch. The General had assured the Governor that his men would safely secure the Viceroy’s return. But now here he was, delivering news of the failure; news that threatened Governor Acuña’s recall by the deceased King’s son—Philip III. Dreams of his new palace behind gated walls seemed to be dissolving into the nightmare of a walled prison cell.

“I gave you complete control and unlimited resources, General,” he screamed. “Only sheer incompetence could have produced such a result.” He pounded his right fist hard on the table, causing his silver cup to jump. The port within erupted like a miniature volcano. Acuña’s Spittle flew between them, losing propulsion and falling harmlessly on the black tabletop.

Serezo remained stoic, stone-faced and stone-bodied, as would any man of enormous pride. He offered no defense, nor resistance. Acuña sensed it was because the General understood his anger was appropriate, given the circumstances. Were their positions reversed, he was certain Serezo would mete out the same level of verbal violence.

The Governor finally sat, looking away and pondering his next steps. There was no reversing the damage that was done. So it was now critical that he control the narrative. That, and lay blame elsewhere. A politician must never accept responsibility; it would be career-ending. Only newly emerging politicians might be altruistic enough to fall into the trap of opening themselves up to blame. Not him. He was a seasoned politico, fully capable of engineering outcomes that burnished his already much-revered status. The only real questions were where the blame would be placed, and how the supporting framework would be engineered.

As to the first question…laying blame…he thought of the men who’d participated in the exchange. Best to blame someone of note who had perished in the effort; they wouldn’t be around to mount a defense. Don Francisco Rivera De Mendoza came to mind first. As Viceroy Valdez’ second-in-command, he’d been brought in to identify the Viceroy during the ransom exchange.

The other man of any consequence was Felipe De Heredia y Ortega. He was a wealthy financier and man of prominence in Cartagena. The Viceroy’s captor (the Witch) had apparently reached out to Ortega for aide in getting their ransom request to King Philip.

The more he thought about these two men, the more Governor Acuña preferred blaming Ortega. After all, blaming Rivera might raise the ire of the military. Ortega, on the other hand, had no defenders; just haters who envied his wealth. In fact, most of the merchants in the city resented the man for his prior dealings with them. That was because Ortega always seemed to come away with the advantage. ‘Yes,’ thought Acuña, ‘Ortega would be the better of the two to take the fall.’

Still, General Serezo, silent and motionless, required punishment; he’d been in charge of the ransom exchange. Acuña believed a modest imprisonment would suffice. He was confident Serezo would accept that penalty, since he ultimately needed the Governor on his side if he were to continue in his current, highly elevated role.

Acuña finally rose. “Guards,” he called. Two soldiers entered momentarily. “Escort the General to the penitenciario. He is to be held there pending further word from me.”

Serezo didn’t resist. He slowly unsheathed his cutlass with his left hand, offering it up to the Governor, pommel first. “As you wish, Governor. I shall await your call.” He bowed briefly before turning to exit with the guards on either side. The two soldiers held the General in high regard. But orders were orders. Their surprise at these particular orders appeared mollified by the General’s own behavior.

As the men left, Acuña sat back down. He now needed to flesh out the story that would point to Ortega’s fault for the failed exchange, the principal result of which was the Viceroy’s apparent death. General Serezo had expressed absolute certainty that Valdez had drowned. The man’s death at the hand of The Witch would be a far more difficult message to deliver to King Philip III than the loss of his forty thousand doubloons.

_____

It was clear the Witch was taking no chances. She and six of her men circled him, pistols drawn and aimed in De Graaf’s direction. He watched the remaining crew members drop the barrel of water, food supplies, a knife, an unloaded pistol, gunpowder, a long-coat, a sheet of canvas and a variety of tools at the edge of the foliage. They’d earlier left a roped canvas bag containing pistol balls about fifty yards away, near the far end of the narrow, pebble-strewn beach. With the supplies unloaded, some of the men headed back to their longboat on the far side of the island, from where they’d all made their approach. The water conditions there were slightly more forgiving, though the rocky barrier ensured their approach was harrowing enough.

No one in his right mind would elect to land on this God-forsaken island, thought De Graaf. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Not live ones, that is. Dead ones, on the other hand, had floated ashore from the remains of ships that unintendedly challenged the deadly shoals from time to time. Scattered, disjointed remains of a few skeletons still lingered about. De Graaf understood those bones were likely to be his only human companionship while he lived out his remaining days here. His reality was now clear—the Witch intended his death to be a more prolonged experience than he ever anticipated.

Garret pointed her pistol to the rocks at De Graaf’s feet. “You shall make your final peace here,” she called out above the noise of the pounding surf. “Fair punishment for the brutal slaying of Viceroy Jorge Valdez.”

“The bloody bastard was still alive when I left him,” De Graaf shouted back.

“His death was imminent,” Garret countered.

“So you claim,” came the reply, accompanied by a wad of spit directed her way.

Garret felt a sudden urge to gut the man here and now. It was almost as though he knew she’d been forced to take Valdez’ life herself, to end his misery. She took a deep breath and held back, having earlier concluded that a long and lonely existence on this isolated speck of land would inflict the maximum aggregate pain on the virtual killer of her former lover. Both physical and mental pain. “This place is the Devil’s hunting ground,” she responded. “You shall meet him here in good time, but not before daily regretting having caused the Viceroy’s death.”

“God damn you and all your ancestors, Witch!”

“I am afraid God is not on your side, De Graaf. He will surely have no mercy on your rotting soul.”

De Graaf gazed at his foreboding surroundings. This long, narrow stretch of pebbled beach was surrounded almost entirely by towering stone cliffs. The grayness seemed to seep into and chill the deepest depths of his body. He peered into Garret’s eyes with a bloodthirsty stare. “My men shall not take kindly to your actions here. I can already see them ravaging you like wolves craving female flesh.”

Captain William Tovery, Garret’s partner, drew his cutlass quickly and stepped forward, threatening to slice a few more scars on De Graaf’s corpus…soon-to-be corpse.

“No,” shouted Garret, extending her arm. “Leave him be. He is not deserving of the quick release I gave Jorge.”

William hesitated before lowering his sword. His eyes never left the pyrate’s face.

De Graaf grinned back, “You are a sorry want of a man,” he taunted.

William’s rage flared. He darted toward his target. Garret jabbed out her leg, tripping him as he went. He fell forward, scraping on the gravel. De Graaf roared with laughter.

William rose and glared back at Garret. “Damn you.”

“Stand down, William. This is not your call to make.” She turned to walk away. De Graaf laughed in his gravelly voice and spit in William’s direction. William scowled, spit at the ground, and then turned to follow Garret. The other men backed up, keeping their pistols pointed at De Graaf.

“Shoot me,” De Graaf yelled. “Shoot me now,” he dared them. There was no response. He took an aggressive step toward them. Three pistols fired nervously. One shot whizzed past him. Another sliced his ear. The third bit the top of his shoulder. He stumbled backward from the third hit but smiled broadly, defiantly. “You are all cowards,” he laughed.

Garret’s men continued walking backward, training pistols on the wounded beast. He shouted once more at Garret, “You shall regret this, Witch. You can be certain of that.”

One of Garret’s men chose to fire a warning shot in the air as the group proceeded back to the head of the trail they’d crafted on the way here. De Graaf thrust his right hand hard into the air. “Damn you all, you bastards. When I get off this island, you are all dead men.”

William trailed Garret along the narrow path. “You realize there is no assurance he will die here,” he grumbled.

Garret stopped and turned to face him. “Leave it be, William. The deed is done. God will have his way with the beast.” She turned back and continued walking.

After several paces, William continued, “I do worry about his crew. We can expect them to react with force.”

“They won’t even know what has become of him,” replied Garret. “Or that we played a role in his disappearance. His only men who witnessed our ambush were with him at the time. And they’re all gone.”

“Except the Jew.”

“I trust Yosel implicitly. He was the one who informed me of De Graaf’s scheme.”

“Which only makes him a traitor to his former captain. Who is to say he will not betray you?”

“Leave it be, William.”

“You realize you are assuming there was no one from his campsite who may have remained behind, observing our ambush under cover of the jungle.”

Garret paused. It was a fair point. “Perhaps it does suggest careful vigilance on Tortuga.”

William accepted her concession and altered course, “I am most anxious to be back there. Mostly for the food.”

Garret nodded. “I, too, am famished.” She stopped for a moment and leaned in close, whispering in his ear to avoid being overheard, “Before we get back, we must settle on the distribution of the King’s doubloons among the crew.”

“And where to secure our own,” William whispered back. They shared a common concern…Pandora was not the ideal location to hide their portion of King Philip’s forty thousand doubloons.

_____

De Graaf sat on the gravel, pressing his hand hard against hisshoulder to stem the bleeding. “Damn the Witch,” he mumbled. He thought back to his earliest days alongside Connachan. She’d joined Drake’s fleet as a midshipman, disguised as male. De Graaf wasn’t sure whether Drake knew of her ruse back then. But years later, when he appointed her captain, he’d come clean with the crew. Ever since then, De Graaf was convinced the girl had seduced or bewitched Drake, to gain her promotion—hence the nickname “The Witch”. It spread rapidly among her detractors.

Though any woman’s presence onboard ship was a bad omen, De Graaf grudgingly admired Connachan’s mastery with a sword. It was said she’d been finely tutored in military arts by a retired officer, after being expelled from a private academy for knifing a classmate. Her defenders claimed she was avenging the rape of her friend.

He thought back to the night of his assault on her ship, Pandora. He and his partner picked seven men to assist them in their effort to kidnap Viceroy Valdez and kill the Witch. Valdez was a valuable hostage for whom King Philip would likely pay an enormous ransom. But the assault ended in the Viceroy’s death…and Garret’s killing of De Graaf’s partner, something he’d vowed to avenge. Having escaped the carnage that night, he’d taken the Viceroy’s ear and ring as trophies. The latter had been given to Valdez by King Philip II, on his appointment to Viceroy.

It was those damned trophies that ultimately led to his being here, De Graaf thought. He’d used them to convince King Philip II his beloved friend and Viceroy was still alive, and could be freed for a healthy ransom. The forty thousand doubloons had been handed over by Governor Acuna’s men, but then promptly lost to Connachan in an ambush. He suspected one of his own men had informed the Witch of his plan.

If he were ever to get off this damned island, he thought, he would rain bloody Hell on her, that bastard William Tovery, and the traitor within his own crew.