by otis duane
The parliamentary commissioning system was ripe with corruption and was used to further the cause of the privileged few. Leadership, intelligence, and sound tactical skills were no longer qualifying factors for military commands. Now they went to cronies, aristocrats with the right pedigree, or to those to whom a debt was owed.
Once commissioned, these officers were owned by the bureaucrats in the Palace of Westminster, whose only loyalties lie in the interests of powerful merchant families. Sadly, the crown’s priorities were often an afterthought for these political elitists.
It wasn’t uncommon, for example, for one of these parliamentary captains to take a detour on an official voyage to tend to the private business of their benefactor. Furthermore, many naval officers went out of their way to avoid battles altogether unless, of course, it meant launching an attack on a competitor’s merchant vessel.
One such captain, while dining with his lord benefactor, summed up this mindset well. Raising his glass of wine for a toast, he said quite pompously, “No sense bloodying oneself over something as foolhardy as a national crisis. A cannon should only be fired when a profit is to be gained.”
~*~
This severely flawed system was one the king was coerced into honoring, and it made assigning the right man to this mission even more imperative.
Although parliamentary-commissioned officers couldn’t be avoided altogether, His Majesty could at least ensure the convoy would be led by a seasoned commander. A man like Captain William Darcy was his obvious choice. He was shrewdly competent, fearless, and unquestionably loyal to His Majesty. Although only 30 years old, Darcy was a 17-year seafaring veteran whose mettle had been tested in battle time and again.
Though the captain ran a tight ship and demanded much from his crew, he had a reputation for treating his sailors fairly. In his mind, a disciplined crew with high morale was a deadly efficient one when it came time to do battle. Darcy’s style of command had earned him tremendous respect from his sailors, who’d boldly follow him into battle anytime, or anywhere.
The man who William Darcy was today had been forged through a tough and tragic childhood.
At the age of 11, he lost his parents when their buggy flipped over and crashed into a ditch. Soon thereafter, the young boy was sent to live with his only kin, an abusive, alcoholic uncle who owned a seedy tavern in the port city of Plymouth, in the southeastern part of England. There, a young Billy toiled long hours cleaning steins and serving ale to drunken sailors who patronized the rundown pub.
Soon though, his brutish uncle’s corporal ways wore on the boy, and he ran away to the nearby docks where he found steady work unloading cargo ships.
For months, he listened to sailors retell their captivating stories of their many sea adventures. Before long he too answered his own calling to the sea, and joined a ship’s crew as a greenhorn deckhand.
After several voyages, and having learned his way around a ship, his higher calling for a new challenge was answered when he enlisted into the king’s navy.
A quick study, Darcy rapidly worked his way up the ranks and eventually became a captain, thanks in part to his older mentor, Joshua Burnham.
Within a few years though, his career hit the glass ceiling that often plagued non-parliamentary officers like him. Gone were the days of merit promotion beyond the ranks of captain. While many of his fellow officers felt insulted by this injustice and resigned their commissions, William held steadfast. To him, commanding a warship and her crew was his true calling in life.
Once, he even jokingly said, “Anymore, standing on dry land makes me seasick.”
If this was true for any man, it was true for him. The sea was where he found his balance.
Chapter 4 - Dorian Gypsy Witches
Fall, 1687 ~ Gypsy Camp ~ Romania
All around, the trees’ leaves had turned to the brown, orange, and yellow hues of autumn. In the distance, the picturesque Retezat mountain peaks were beginning to snow cap. The Dorian family and their Romanian gypsy clan would break camp for the winter in a month’s time. Their father, Fonso, was tending to the family’s horses, checking their shoes in advance of their upcoming journey. The horses would be used to pull the family’s two covered wagons to the southern coast of Albania, on the Adriatic Sea.
The Dorians were nomads and traveled with the seasons. Like all gypsies, their wagons were their home. The five family members traveled everywhere together along with their clan. Fonso and his wife, Tilda, lived in one wagon and their three daughters shared the other.
Fonso was a stocky man with powerful arms and shoulders built up over the many years of working as a carpenter. He made everything from wagons to barns, and also did masonry work from time to time. During the winter months, he usually worked as a shipbuilder at the port of Sarandë. A quiet man, he enjoyed relaxing around the campfire at night listening to his girls talk while he smoked his Calabash pipe.
~*~
At the moment, his three daughters were toting fresh water from a nearby stream. They each carried two wooden buckets and had extra bota bags slung over their shoulders.
Erika was in the lead as they headed down the forested dirt trail. At 18, she was the oldest of the sisters and was like a second mother to the other two.
Directly behind her was 14-year-old Adriana, the youngest Dorian girl. Adriana was the chatty one, and on this morning she was especially full of energy. She loved nothing more than spending time with her sisters.
Bringing up the rear was the middle daughter, 16-year-old Elena. As much as Adriana loved to talk, Elena liked to ignore her and the rest of the family, for that matter. She found them, and nearly everything else, to be a major annoyance.
~*~
Back at camp, Tilda had been called over to her sister-in-law’s wagon in the next clearing over. One of her boys had stumbled over a log and seriously injured his knee. The young boy’s mother was beside herself when she arrived.
“Please help him. It’s broken,” she tearfully pleaded, leading Tilda over to her crying son.
Carefully examining her nephew’s bruised and swollen knee, she lightheartedly said, “Looks like you did a real job on your knee there, little man.”
With tears streaming down his face the boy slowly nodded.
“Well, no worries. I’ll have you all fixed up in a jiff, okay?” she said with a warm smile. Her presence alone was enough to begin calming them both down.
Taking a seat next to him on their wagon’s staircase, she stroked his head and said, “This is gonna get hot and hurt some. So be a brave boy for me.”
The boy, wiping the tears from his face, nodded back to her.
Closing her eyes, she began to silently meditate while rubbing her two hands together.
A few moments later, she raised her open palms to the sky and then laid them down on top of his knee. Taking a deep breath, she quietly chanted a Dorian spell of healing in their ancient witch tongue.
“Quisque culis finibus meting sed accusan. Nulla id velit, nisi id libero.”
From underneath her cupped hands a faint white light began to glow.
Repeating the spell over and over again, her voice grew louder with each incantation as the light shined a little brighter.
“Mommy, it burns!” the boy cried out, his eyes welling up again as his mother squeezed his hand.
Before long, the pain was nearly unbearable as he writhed and moaned.
“Ow-w-w-w!
“Almost there, honey,” his mother encouraged him, when suddenly they all heard a loud- POP.
Opening her eyes, Tilda said, “There now,” and withdrew her hands. “Give it a minute.”
The boy’s knee was glowing white hot, fading shortly to a yellowish shine, and then to a warm reddish color. When the glow subsided his knee looked like it was sunburned with Tilda’s handprints on it.
Blowing on her own steaming palms, she said, “That’ll clear up in a couple of days.”
“Can I get you anything?” th
e boy’s tearful mother asked.
“Water would be great.”
Her sister-in-law leaned over, and unhooked an animal bladder hanging near her and poured the water out over Tilda’s reddened hands.
“Ohhhhh, that feels so good,” she commented, rotating her hands underneath the steady stream.
Having gathered themselves Tilda made a suggestion to the boy.
“How about you try out your knee before I leave?”
Standing up, the boy wobbled some, and took a few tentative steps. Turning, he smiled wide and then walked over to his mother and buried his head in her apron. Except for some bruising and the reddened handprints on his knee, it was as good as new.
“What do you say to auntie Tilda?”
“Thank you,” the boy said in a muffled tone and then turned around to face her.
“Now, give her a hug,” his mother said.
Walking over to Tilda, he gave her a quick squeeze then bolted off to join his brothers.
“Take it easy for a couple of–” Tilda tried to say but the boy had already disappeared down the forest path.
“Wanna trade one of yours for him?” his mom asked jokingly.
“I’ll come by tomorrow to check on him,” Tilda said with a smile and then hugged her.
“Thanks again.”
~*~
Walking back to her own camp, Tilda appeared to be carrying on a conversation with herself.
“Yes. I know. I know. Can we talk later?”
Every so often her long departed mother would arrive in her mind and begin to vent. It appeared that grievances, both real and contrived, were still very much a thing in the afterlife. Her mother was still upset at her father for remarrying so soon after her untimely death … six months to be exact. She especially loathed his second wife, or the concubine as she snidely referred to her as.
Usually it was best to let her mother get it out of her system, but today Tilda was tired and in no mood to listen.
“No, not now,” she said. “Uh huh, well get over it. Goodbye.”
Though her mother was a little neurotic and could be a real bear at times, deep down she was a kind soul.
~*~
Returning to camp, Fonso gave Tilda a peck on her cheek.
“So, how’d it go?”
Halfheartedly she turned and flashed him her reddened palms.
“That good, huh,” he said with a chuckle as she climbed up the stairs to their wagon.
Once inside she collapsed on the bed and quickly fell into a deep slumber.
At times even the life of a good witch could be an exhausting one.
Chapter 5 - Meet the Bismarcks
Present Day ~ Third Week of July ~ Bismarck’s Home ~ Alexandria, VA
Sunday morning breakfast was in full swing in the Bismarck kitchen when Paul entered and joined Margie and the kids.
“Good morning!” he said cheerfully, walking up behind his wife who was fully engaged with the waffle iron. Giving her a hug, he kissed her on the cheek too.
“Hi boo,” she said, reaching up, caressing his face.
Margie was in her full Sunday-morning garb, wearing a baseball cap on backwards, a pair of furry pink slippers and a fuzzy, baby-blue bathrobe. On the back of which it read, Mom-A-Tawk Missile in sparkling letters. It was a cherished Christmas present from the kids and spot on to her active personality.
Margie was truly the glue that held the Bismarck’s together. She was always buzzing around doing something or involved in some sort of project. If she wasn’t at work with Paul at the magazine, she was doing yoga, driving the kids to one of their activities or organizing some sort of charity drive or another. Having recently turned 40, she was still as youthful and vibrant as ever.
~*~
“Hey Dad,” Tinnie greeted him. She was just finishing up one of her Kung Fu moves next to the kitchen table.
“Key-Aye!” she cried out, karate chopping an invisible foe in the side of the neck. Pivoting around, she finished off her imaginary foe with a spinning back kick.
Coming to attention, she pulled her hands to her sides and then reverently bowed to an imaginary group of Kung Fu masters. Turning to face her, Paul bowed to her as well.
“Dad!” she chirped. “I was bowing to the judges, not you.”
Stepping toward her, he gave her a quick combo of a one-armed hug and a kiss to the forehead.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
~*~
Tinnie was the oldest of the Bismarck’s three adopted children. She was of Asian descent and on the shorter end of tall for a girl.
Her quick reflexes, slender build, long legs and arms made her a natural in the combat sport. Her grandfather, who was once a Shaolin Kung Fu master himself, had introduced her to the discipline when she was a young girl.
Along with her drive to excel in martial arts, if you looked up the words serious and anal retentive in the dictionary, there’s a good chance you’d find Tinnie’s picture next to both of them.
Her room alone was a shrine to the perfectionism that drove her to achieve. On one wall she had numerous framed outstanding attendance and student council awards. Each of these framed odes to her achievement was precisely level with one another, with exactly six inches of space between them. Her other shelved wall displayed her many martial arts trophies, which were of course, all lined up in the order of the place she’d finished in.
Any other open wall space was dedicated to numerous posters of her favorite boy band, New Emotion. She especially had a crush on the lead singer, the teen heartthrob Harry Banes, and often referred to him as her FH, short for future husband.
Paul and Margie had adopted Tinnie from an orphanage in Hong Kong when she was five years old. They were told she was born somewhere in northeastern China, and that her mother had died during childbirth. There’d been no information on her father, but they believed him to be deceased. Tinnie’s maternal grandfather had raised her until he was forced to give her over to the orphanage. He was a secretive man who was constantly on the move, and he feared his old adversaries might kidnap her as a ploy to capture him.
Her grandfather, Ying Li, was the Grand Master of the secret Shaolin society known as The Order of the Emerald Tigers. The group was truly the last of its kind. Legend holds that their Kung Fu was infused with the mystic practice of channeling spirits, and that they used this magical practice to defeat their opponents.
There was a time when the Shaolin had earned an almost demigod-like status among Chinese martial artists. Then a schism erupted within the ranks of the Emerald Tigers, with some of its members forming a new splinter group known as The Black Dragons.
The Dragons had become corrupted by their power, and they turned to the dark forces at their disposal to try and become even more powerful. Ying Li desperately tried to get his prodigal disciples to denounce their evil ways, but his efforts fell on deaf ears. The Black Dragons grew even more hostile toward their former master and soon declared war on their former brothers. It was rumored that many of them, by then, had infiltrated the government, where they expanded their treacherous powerbase even more.
After years of fighting, the Emerald Tigers were either dead or unjustly incarcerated, except for Ying, who went into hiding.
In memory of her grandfather, Tinnie kept a faded black and white photo of him in his black silken Kung Fu outfit on her nightstand. Every night before bed she would say a prayer and goodnight to him. Like him, she one day aspired to become a Kung Fu master.
~*~
Circling around the kitchen table, Paul high-fived Manny, the Bismarck’s middle son. Sitting next to him was Heinz, their youngest.
“How are my boys today?” Paul asked, nudging Heinz’s shoulder.
His son completely ignored him, never looking up from the science article he was reading on his notepad.
“OK Sport,” Paul said as he backed away from Heinz, who continued scrolling down the web page.
Although small for his age, Hei
nz made up for what he lacked in size with his superior intellect. Though just 13, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy had already amassed an impressively long list of academic accomplishments and was on course to graduate two years early from high school. Several Ivy League schools had already sent him letters of interest, and more were certain to follow.
Heinz was the president of the local quantum physics chapter, but his real passion was the art of problem solving. Recently, he’d led his school’s math team to a state title, and no less a periodical than Mathematical Journal had called him one of the most ferocious mathletes they’d ever seen.
At the tender age of eight, Heinz became a member of Mensa, the exclusive club reserved for those who test in the 98th percentile or higher on an IQ test. His IQ, which was found to be in the 160s, put him well into the genius level.
All of this was no surprise to Margie and Paul, who’d briefly met his mother, a 19-year-old German woman, just after his birth. The young woman was something of a genius herself and a graduate student in astrophysics on a full ride scholarship at MIT. She too had been a child prodigy, fluently speaking eight languages and graduating Summa Cum Laude from Harvard.
Though not nearly as accomplished in affairs of the heart; she’d had a whirlwind affair with a much older, and very married professor, resulting in her pregnancy. Although painful as it was to give away her baby, she knew she wasn’t ready for the demands of motherhood.
~*~
Sitting a few feet away from Heinz, perched in the kitchen’s bay window sill, was Tinnie’s cat, Muenster. He was a large black stray she’d adopted a year ago, after he started following her home from school. The collar he was wearing at the time had a tag on it that simply read Muenster Cheese. There was no mention of a phone number or an address. Nor did the vet find a microchip implanted in him when she scanned him.
