by John Locke
“None that I’ve found, and believe me, I’ve looked!”
“So it started as a treasure hunt, and now you’re helping people. If you want the big bucks, why not do a reality show on TV and make millions?”
“As I said, I don’t want my life to be a circus. Plus, I’m deep into my research, and things I’ve dismissed before are starting to make sense to me.”
“Like what?”
She seemed to glow, caught up in the moment. “I think I’m onto something even more valuable than money.”
“What’s that?”
“The secret of my heritage.”
“Meaning?”
“We’re all a product of our heritage, Mr. Creed.”
“And why is that so important?”
She smiled. “Well, I’m descended from a famous pirate.”
“Jack Hawley.”
“Yes, Gentleman Jack, as he liked to be called. And about three hundred years ago—”
It was my turn to hold up a hand. “I know the story.”
Libby’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Sorry, but you don’t.”
“Maybe not every detail,” I conceded, “but I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on it.”
“Trust me,” she said. “You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” I said, stubbornly.
She flashed a mischievous grin. “Do you?” she said. A little giggle escaped from her throat. “Do you?” she said, louder, and as she said it her giggle grew until it burst through the tiny room and echoed off the walls.
Part Two
THEN
Chapter 1
THE YEAR OF Our Lord, 1710…
The ship was huge.
With three masts, twenty-eight guns, and a crew of fifty-seven men, it carried a cargo of sugar cane, medicine, wild pigs, and Jamaican Rum. Though it pushed more than three hundred tons, it fairly flew through the water. And such water it was! Pure and clean with a light green hue, and when the bow slapped down, sending a light spray over the deck, it stung the eye and tasted warm and salty on the lips.
The ship was surrounded on all sides by sparkling emerald seas, far as the eye could see. Astern, a dozen porpoises frolicked in the wake, performing wild acrobatic jumps and gyrations to the amusement of the twenty-two hardened crewmen currently off duty. While sailors around the world considered it good luck to share their rations with the sleek sea creatures, it was a rare event to do so, since rations were typically meager and meant to last. But for this particular crew, these were bountiful times. With the ship’s hold freshly restocked the day before, the men could finally afford to toss the last of their weevil-infested biscuits overboard.
Amid-ships, a solitary man stood alone on the upper deck bridge. Lean and tall he was, with long black hair and piercing blue eyes that sparkled when he laughed or had a story to tell. But there were no stories to be told today, for he was determined to ride this strong Westerly wind as far as it would take them. He heard a fluttering sound, looked up at the sails, and frowned. Then he barked an order to the nervous helmsman.
The Quarter-Master, a stocky red-haired Welshman named Pim, tugged at his enormous fiery red muttonchops with both hands, as was his habit when annoyed. It was well known among the ship’s crew that the angrier Pim became, the harder he pulled. He’d been tugging his beard with growing frequency this quarter hour, and was in fact a mere tug away from physically assaulting his fellow crewmate. The Captain’s sharp word had probably saved the helmsman from a severe beating. Pim gave a nod of acknowledgment to the Captain before turning his attention to the tireless sailors who had been working the sails two hours nonstop, attempting to fill every inch of silk with wind. Up to now, they’d made great progress despite their semi-drunk helmsman’s poor showing.
But the man’s errant steering threatened to undermine morale.
The Captain glared at his tipsy crewmember, and cocked his head as if to convey a final warning. The Helmsman, sober enough to catch his meaning, immediately apologized to the Quarter-Master and sailors. It was a sincere apology and a wise decision on his part, considering the harsh penalties for drunkenness while under sail. In normal circumstances, when transporting cargo to port, a drunken helmsman would at the very least be treated to five lashes across the bare back with a rope dipped in tar. Had the infraction occurred under battle conditions, he would surely suffer death by keelhaul.
But neither Captain nor crew were in a mood to punish anyone today. As the steering adjustment took effect, both the Captain and Pim checked the sail before catching each others’ eye. The Captain winked, and Pim pumped his fist in the air and shouted to his sailors, “Keep ‘er sheets full, lads! As big and full as the jugs of St. Alban’s.”
Roberts, the sharp-eyed lookout, shouted down from the crow’s nest. “Aye, and which jugs would ye be referrin’ to, Mr. Pim? Them that’s filled with grog or them that’s filled with milk?”
The crew members laughed lustily. Those who glanced in the Captain’s direction noticed a smile on his handsome face, and to a man, their spirits soared. This crew had worked on many ships, for many masters, but none had worked for a man like this. A frown from him was enough to shake their confidence, but his smile was like gold in their pockets. This was a Captain who owned the hearts and minds of his crew, having earned his status the same way all pirate ship captains wielded absolute authority over their vessels: by unanimous vote of the crew. True, he had proven himself a legendary strategist, loyal friend, and fierce fighter. But there was something more, some indefinable, mysterious quality that was difficult to pin down. The men couldn’t explain it, but they felt more powerful in his presence. Less surly, more content. Crazy as it sounded when speaking of it to each other, they agreed that they could somehow feel his presence when he was within a mile’s distance. More importantly, from the moment he’d stepped on board, their fortunes increased. Winds were stronger, storms fewer, and waters more peaceful and calm than ever before. There had been fewer injuries and illness, and the wounds that did occur healed faster. Even the food seemed to taste better when the Captain was on board.
The Captain had joined them two years ago. Now, after several campaigns at sea, he and his ship, The Fortress, had become well-known throughout the Caribbean. No, more than that: they had achieved celebrity status.
The porpoises abruptly ended their show and darted ahead, providing escort for a league or so before finally peeling off in search of some alternate aquatic activity.
When The Fortress was under full sail, with a strong wind, she could cover a hundred miles in a day. But they wouldn’t require a full day to reach Shark’s Bay. At this speed, they’d have the Captain dropped off there by mid afternoon. As always, he’d change into commoner’s clothes, lower an open boat into the water, and row it over the shoals, up the Little River to the edge of St. Alban’s Settlement to scope out the lay of the land. The Fortress would head back out to sea three miles, make a wide loop, and then double back to St. Alban’s, to the deep water of North Port, off Sinner’s Row, where she would finally anchor in sixty feet of water a quarter mile out and wait for word from the Captain that it was safe to go ashore.
Roberts spied a flock of seabirds, and the atmosphere above and below decks crackled with anticipation.
They continued heading due west, toward Shark Bay. Though they sailed under the red, white and blue flag of the British East India Company, this was a pirate ship with a pirate crew.
It was Jack Hawley’s ship, Jack Hawley’s crew.
Chapter 2
THE STEADY BREEZE on St. Alban’s Beach could not penetrate the gnarled trees and dense thickets three hundred yards inland where Abby Winter shared a wooden shanty house with her mother and stepfather. It was early afternoon on a cloudless day and the July heat was stifling. Abby and her mother had emptied the chamber pots that morning, but hadn’t had time to properly clean them.
“Please don’t do this
,” Abby said. “It’s humiliating!”
“It’s been decided, child, so let it be.”
They weren’t talking about chamber pots.
“It’s posted for tomorrow,” Abby said, “but posting doesn’t make it mandatory. You’re allowed to change your mind on matters such as these. People do it all the time without consequence.”
“I could change my mind, but I will not. As I say, it’s been decided.”
Abby’s mother, Hester, handed her one of the tarnished chamber pots. Abby accepted it and winced as the odor hit her nostrils. Her mother said, “Let’s get these done before he thinks we’re conjuring a demon.”
Abby gasped. Her eyes made a quick sweep of the trees that ringed their shanty. She briefly wondered if her mother had gone daft. It was bad enough she’d agreed to the public posting, and now she was making witchery comments! Abby scolded her mother with a severe whisper. “You cannot have said that!”
“Don’t be so skittish, child. There’s no one ‘round.”
“There’s always someone around,” Abby said. “The river crossing is just yonder. Pray, you must not speak of these things, even lightly.”
“I’ll say no more when you talk less of the posting.”
“But this must be discussed! He’s your husband, not your owner. He can’t just sell you in the town square!”
Hester started to say something, but changed her mind. She looked at the stained chamber pot in her hand and sighed. Ten years earlier she’d been known throughout the colony for her beauty. Now, more often than not, her hair was a tangled mass of mud-soaked curls. She rubbed her shoulder absently and winced. A horrific fungus had taken over her right shoulder and begun a steady progression across her upper back. On hot days like this, her afflicted skin cracked open, releasing a milky liquid that stuck to the fibers of her fustian smock. Hester had to continually lift the fabric from her skin or risk forming a scab that would have to be torn away later.
Abby noticed her discomfort. “Has your condition worsened?”
Hester frowned. “Faith, child, I’m common indeed to suffer before you. What a sorry complainer I’ve become.”
“You’ve become nothing of the sort, though I know not how you maintain your sanity. You’ve had a hard burden from the day we moved here.”
“Not so hard compared to others,” Heather said, making the sign of the cross on her chest. She looked around before whispering. “Know what I wish?”
“What?”
“That I could uncover my shoulder and back so the sun could heal it.”
“Surely you’d be seen and forced to bear the consequence.”
“Aye, child.”
The constant burning and itching was impossible to get used to, and had thus far eluded home remedy. Though her well-formed body continued to draw looks from the men of St. Alban’s, Hester’s face and neck had turned ash-gray from drinking a potion of colloidal silver forced upon her by her husband, and that, along with the heavy scar tissue framing her eyes, and her thrice broken nose, added years to her appearance.
Hester studied Abby’s face carefully before shaking her head. “Being sold to a new man is a way to better things for me.”
“But—”
“You’ve seen my life, you know how he is.”
“I do know,” Abby said, gently. “But you could divorce him.” She looked around to make sure he hadn’t come up on them. He hadn’t, but she whispered anyway. “You could divorce him and take me with you.”
Hester laughed. “And how many women have you seen in North Florida Colony with money enough to divorce a husband? As for taking you with me, I cannot, as you’re the purpose for the sale.”
There was a slight delay before the horror registered in Abby’s face. Hester softened her tone. “Abby,” she said. “Look at you. Even in these conditions, you are far the fairest maid in the colony. I do not wish you to think ill of me, abandoning you to such a harsh man.”
“Yet how can I not?”
“I have a plan.”
“What plan?”
“He will show you a softer side. Of this I’m certain. You won’t remember, but when he took us in, he was tolerant, even kind, at times. Of course I was young and pretty then. These days I vex him constantly, with my limp, my face, and frailty.”
“’Course I remember,” Abby said. “It was only a few years past. But he’s the one caused your limp! Your ‘face and frailty,’ as you put it, is a consequence of his constantly boxing your nose and eyes and cuffing your ears.”
Hester dabbed at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
“Truly? And what will I understand? How you let that swine of a man cuff you about and rut you day and night as if you were a crippled sow?”
Hester’s eyes blazed for a brief moment, and Abby hoped to receive a sharp rebuke or slap across the face. Any such response would show that her mother retained a measure of spirit. But the fire in Hester’s eyes quickly died, leaving behind only an apathetic stare. Instead of lashing out, she shrugged and said, “We suffer for our children, not ourselves.”
Abby frowned. “And what is that presumed to mean?”
Hester turned and started walking toward the creek. Abby followed, waiting for a response. She watched her mother scoop a handful of sand from the water’s edge and dump it in her chamber pot. Abby sighed, and did the same. They swirled the sand around the inside of the pots with their fingers, scrubbing and grinding it against the hardened fecal deposits. Then they rinsed the pots in the creek and inspected them.
Abby said, “Fine. Don’t tell me. But why can we not just leave this wretched man and his poor excuse for a house?”
“Leave? Has your brain been seized by vipers? Where would you have us go, child, Sinner’s Row?”
Abby knew her mother was right. There weren’t many pleasant options for women in North Florida Colony in 1710. She lowered her eyes and said, “I like not the way he looks at me.”
“He has looked at you that way for two full years, though you knew it not till now.”
The way Hester proclaimed it gave Abby pause. “Two years ago I was thirteen!”
“Aye, child,” Hester said. “Now ponder that fact a moment before speaking.”
Abby did. In the colonies, as in Europe, the minimum legal age for marriage had been twelve for girls, fourteen for boys, for as long as anyone could remember. Still, in Abby’s experience, it was outrageous to think of a forty-year-old man rutting a child. Then the weight of Hester’s words hit her and made Abby realize for the first time what had transpired in the man’s house. Her stomach lurched.
“You kept him from me these two years. That’s why you accepted these many beatings and ruts. You were protecting me.”
“Aye, child.”
They embraced and held each other for a long moment. When they separated, Hester said, “It was not your fault I chose a surly man.” Her free hand drifted absently to her face and touched the bumps at the bridge of her nose. “I did what I could to keep him off you these many months.”
“But now?”
Hester fixed her gaze on Abby’s eyes. “Now you’re fifteen, fully bloomed, and his desire to have you exceeds my ability to protest.”
Abby’s eyes widened. “So I’m to be your way out? You’re to have a new husband and I’m to be left here to rut the swine?”
“You’re young and strong and untouched. He’ll be nice to you for the duration.”
Abby was so busy trying to wrap her mind around her circumstance, she almost missed it.
“What duration?”
“Walk with me, child.”
They crossed the small clearing and stood close behind the privy, squinting their eyes against the foul odor. When she was absolutely certain her words would not be overheard, Hester whispered, “When Thomas Griffin buys me, I will set at once to acquire a vial of arsenic from his apothecary which I shall give to you. A few drops in your stepfather’s eve
ry meal will do the devil’s work within two months. And you will rise in station, inheriting his house and the proceeds of his business.”
“You cannot be serious. I’d have to marry him for this to be the legal result.”
“That may seem the worst part to you now, but on further reflection, you’ll find it a sound plan to help you become a young woman of property.”
Abby had no intention of reflecting thus. In fact, she had plans of her own, that she had never discussed with her mother. But something her mother had said didn’t sit right with her.
“Why do you think Thomas Griffin will purchase you?” she asked. Then she shook her head with disgust, thinking about her mother being sold off like the family cow.
Hester patted her hand. “Mr. Griffin has always been kind to me, and his daughter needs a mother.” She saw the skepticism in Abby’s eyes, and added, “And there’s more, child, though unseemly it would be to discuss the matter further.”
Abby’s eyes grew wide as saucers and she nearly voiced her outrage. But then she thought of the man she’d met at the river crossing six months ago, and what happened during his last visit.
His name was Henry, and he’d come to her like a gift from above, on horseback, carrying a leather satchel filled with useful things. Fully grown, ten years older than she, Henry was a man of property, and close kin to Mayor Shrewsbury, the wealthiest, most powerful man in the colony, save for the governor himself. He was well-traveled and conversational, with an exhaustive inventory of colorful stories featuring far off lands and remarkable people.
Astonishingly, Henry had managed to show up three of the five times both her mother and step-father happened to be gone. She now knew where her mother had been on those occasions, but how fortuitous for her that Henry always seemed to show up at the most opportune times.
She knew he was the man she’d marry, had known it from first sight. Not because he was tall and handsome, or rich and worldly, but because she could feel his presence from a great distance, even before he emerged from the woods. And not just the first time, but every time! If she could always feel his presence a quarter hour before he arrived, how could this not be transcendent love? The powerful feeling he projected put her soul at ease, calmed her fears, and spoke to her heart.
