by Attard, Ryan
“French,” the first mate spat. “Never liked the French.” He returned the sea glass. “Your orders, Captain?”
“Wait for them to announce their intent,” Finnegan ordered. He was used to pirates’ antics—they would spout out some villainous dialogue, trying to instill fear in their prey, and then attack with sheer numbers.
“Then, fire at the bigger ship,” he added.
“Aye, Sir.”
Finnegan turned to face Duchess Tier. “Take the priest and hide in the decks below. Can you fire a pistol?”
She nodded.
“Good,” Finnegan said. “Arm yourselves and wait for my signal before exiting.”
She disappeared without argument, leaving the captain alone with the rest of his crew. Finnegan armed himself with a pair of pistols, tucking them in his sash next to his saber, and picked up a musket.
The battleship pulled close to the Belladonna.
“This is a message to all the crew,” a voice bellowed from the enemy galleon.
A lone man walked on its decks as other members of the enemy popped their heads out to observe.
“Surrender to our great captain, so he may spare your life,” the lone man said. “If you are useful, you may join our crew. If you resist, the sea shall be your coffin. How do you respond?”
Finnegan cocked his rifle and calmly shot the man squarely between the eyes. Stunned silence rang from all three ships.
“Fire,” he calmly ordered.
Cannons roared as the Belladonna spat lead into the enemy ship.
The battleship retaliated; however, its crew was too scattered to properly defeat Finnegan’s ship. The frigate had yet to fire once. Finnegan eyed it suspiciously. It had kept its distance, and its four cannons were manned by only two crew members who clearly had no idea what they were doing.
“Board,” Finnegan ordered.
Anchors and grappling hooks soared from the Belladonna. The crew swung across onto the enemy vessel, and the battle reached its climax. Finnegan dropped his rifle and grabbed a length of rope dangling from a grappling hook. He flew on top of an enemy sailor and bashed his head against the railing. His curved saber glinted in the sun as it swathed through the enemy, drenching the galleon’s floorboards in blood.
During every battle, his senses would overtake him, and he would let his instincts guide him.
This time, however, he was aware of how his mind worked, as if seeing the inside of a clock shifting its clogs and gears.
He saw an enemy come at him, slowly, as if he were held back by something. Finnegan’s mind took in every detail—the enemy’s lack of teeth, clearly a sign of advanced scurvy, and his lack of balance on the waves indicating his short time as a sailor. Finnegan’s sword met his neck, killing him with frightening ease.
Another came, and he, too, seemed sluggish. This enemy fought with a cutlass in his left hand. Finnegan felt his awkward movements, and his mind made the connection when he saw the man’s injury on his right shoulder. The captain attacked his weak side, felling him. Then, like a flash of lightning, his instincts told him to duck to the right.
As he did, he felt a hot bullet whiz by, killing an enemy sailor—an enemy who was holding a musket, with Finnegan in his sights.
Finnegan turned, trying to identify which of his men had saved his life, and saw a wave of golden hair.
Duchess Tier held an empty pistol in her left hand and a cutlass in the other. She lept into the fray, fighting with twice the ferocity of his men. Her posture was a clear indication of her training with the sword, albeit perhaps not the savagery of battle. That was her weak spot—Finnegan could see it clearly. She knew how to duel, where rules and etiquette were as important as skill.
But this was no gentleman’s duel.
She dropped her pistol and struggled with her blade. Finnegan noticed very obvious errors in her methodology and cringed as she swung incorrectly and snapped her blade in half. She drove the pommel into the man’s jaw and he dropped unconscious. Her actions confused Finnegan. With all the errors she made, she should have been the first one dead. And yet, there she stood, defying the laws of logic and common sense.
His mind suddenly reached a conclusion—was the duchess experiencing the very same symptoms he was?
Did they not tell him already that they had managed to locate more of his kind, and they had joined the Order? Was Tier referring to herself?
As he engaged another enemy, Finnegan kept an eye on the duchess, looking to confirm his suspicions.
He felled his opponent and looked over to find her struggling with a large and burly crewman, who smiled perversely as he squeezed her neck with one hand and roamed around her body with the other.
The duchess’s hand felt around and her fingers wrapped around a cannonball. She smacked the sailor in the face with it, unhinging his entire jaw. With a grunt of effort, she swung again, and the man dropped like a stone.
Finnegan lunged and impaled a pirate who approached her with a knife. He smiled cockily at her.
She took a defiant step towards him—no, past him—and swung her leg upwards.
The enemy pirate was too busy cocking his pistol and taking aim at Finnegan’s back, and could not react when Tier appeared in front of him, kicking upwards. The hard leather of her boot met the space between his legs, and the man jumped an inch off the decks. He made a high-pitched noise, his eyes wide open, before finally falling down, unconscious.
A shot went off from the dropping flintlock. It struck a pirate fighting with the first mate, and when the shot hit him, he dropped his blade, allowing the first mate to cut him down. The latter flourished with his sword as thanks and ran off to engage his next enemy.
Tier returned Finnegan’s cocky smile. “You’re welcome.”
Finnegan felt power inside him, asking him to take control. He gazed at Tier, meeting her eyes. She nodded understandingly, confirming Finnegan’s suspicion. Once this was sorted out, he would need to confer with her again.
But for now, he had more pressing matters.
“Surrender!” he roared. Finnegan’s voice echoed like a lion’s. It halted the wind and waves, and both enemy pirates and fellow crew members alike froze on the spot, stunned by the sheer power of Finnegan’s voice. Only Tier seemed to be able to breathe normally.
Filled with sudden fear and dread, the enemy dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Finnegan nodded at the first mate, who began issuing orders.
The battle had been decided.
Chapter 6
The pirates had been bound and set kneeling next to each other in a straight row. Their captain, a Frenchman with a waxed mustache and a flamboyant hat, had found his courage again.
“You will never take my ship. You should bow down before me, the great Captain-”
Before he could finish his sentence, Finnegan walked by, extracted a pistol in one swift motion and shot the pirate squarely in between the eyes.
“Are there any more complaints?” he asked. No one spoke out.
He gazed at the frigate. His mind, still functioning at a higher rate, concluded that there had to be more people inside the smaller ship and quickly realized they were no pirates.
Slaves, most likely.
He nodded at his crew members, indicating to pull the ship closer. Once the two ships were side by side, Finnegan jumped on the frigate, alone, his saber was in hand and blood droplets splattering on the decks. He opened a door and saw a group of scared people huddled together. Two pirates knelt in surrender before him.
Finnegan’s eyes fell on a young boy, who stopped burying his face in his father’s shoulder long enough to take in the new figure. Then the child’s eyes snapped back towards the two pirates, fear canvasing his expression.
Finnegan followed the boy’s gaze—he noticed a riding crop in one of pirate’s hands. It had dried blood on it.
Angered, Finnegan drove the tip of his saber into the pirate’s neck and twisted. As he pulled his sword out of the man, the
second pirate lunged in a frenzy.
A metal ball shot forward, inches away from Finnegan’s face, crushing the pirate’s head. The enemy’s visage was rendered into bloody pulp, and he fell dead.
“You’re late, Quartermaster,” Finnegan said.
The quartermaster appeared by his side, the chain rattling as he recalled his weapon.
“Apologies, Captain.” Then, he noticed the edge of Finnegan’s blade and his wrist already coiled to strike. “Not that you needed any help in the first place.”
Finnegan nodded at him and smiled at the boy.
“Provide them with whatever they require to sail safely back home,” he ordered. The quartermaster nodded and called for aid.
Finnegan made his way back to the battleship.
“You each have three options,” he told the bound enemy pirates. “The first: surrender and leave on the longboat that my men are generously lowering for you. You will be provided with all you require to sail to the next port.”
He paused with his sword still in hand, and he made sure they all got a good look at it.
“The second option is for you to join my crew. You will be respected and treated well, so long as you earn your keep.”
Again, Finnegan paused, allowing the enemy to digest his words.
“Your third option is to offer any degree of resistance—upon which you will be killed and thrown overboard.” A grin stretched across his lips. “I’m sure some of the sharks need feeding. Now choose.”
Most of the prisoners stood there, trembling with fear and indecision, until finally, one of them found his voice.
“Go rot in Hell,” he spat in Finnegan’s direction. “We will never join you. We have our pride. What do you say to that, you bastard?”
Finnegan glared at him.
He’d met this type before; they were usually the seed behind every mutiny. If he allowed him to become a crew member, his men would mutiny within the week.
Rot had to be destroyed at the core.
Finnegan extended his empty hand behind him and felt a pistol being slapped on his palm. He pointed the gun at the rebel and killed him on the spot.
“Any more queries?” he asked. No one answered.
“See to their needs and send them on their way,” Finnegan ordered his crew. “Take whatever we require and sink this ship. We have a bearing to be on.”
***
“Did you lie to me?” Finnegan asked, slamming both palms on his desk.
He, Tier and Rodriguez were back in his cabin, while the Belladonna resumed its voyage.
“No,” Tier replied. “Not once.”
“So, it was merely a convenience that you neglected to mention who, or what, you truly are?”
“And what would that be, exactly?” Her face glowered in sweat and anger. “You speak of me, of us, like we have a disease, Captain. Yes, I am like you. God does not favor one gender over the other.”
Father Rodriguez placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, placating her. “My dear Captain, how do you suppose we found you?”
Finnegan frowned. In the midst of all that had transpired in the last few days, he’d never paused to ask that basic question.
Why him?
“It was Duchess Tier,” the priest continued. “She knew where to find you. And she also had the resources to force your hand if she so chose to.”
“How so?” Finnegan asked.
“You know my name is Elizabeth Tier,” Tier said. “But you do not know that my uncle is Lord Ferdinand.”
Finnegan recognized the name. It was the same one on his Letter of Marque—Tier’s uncle was his employer.
“Forcing you to accept us would have been counterproductive,” she continued. “You needed to accept this quest of your own volition. That way you could sincerely embrace our story.”
“She was the one who convinced her uncle to accept our Order on British shores and smuggle me in,” Rodriguez said. “Her powers are quite astounding.”
Tier looked pleased with herself.
“I swear on my faith, Captain, that we meant no deception,” the priest added. “You know all that we do.”
Finnegan nodded. “Can you explain why I see things differently? Or know precisely where and when to strike? Or how I can read the wind and waves?”
“It is your blessing.”
“Yes, but can you help me control it?”
“No, he cannot,” Tier replied, before offering Finnegan a smile. “But I can.”
Chapter 7
Tier, Finnegan found, was quite unlike the pompous and proud aristocrats he loved to loathe.
Over the next few weeks, she taught him further how to read, both books and people. In turn, he taught her how to fight properly, and whatever his father passed onto him with regards to navigation and seafaring. They spent countless evenings in each other’s company, discussing everything from the sea to the stars and everything in between: the colonization of the New World; the bearings of the war on pirates, and even philosophical topics like the morality of man.
Finnegan began warming up to her, relishing in her company.
Their relationship escalated one night after a storm. It had been a brutal afternoon, but the ship survived, and everyone made merry. Song and drink were aplenty, and the decks of the Belladonna were lit up like a large beacon. Finnegan and Tier sat on the stairs below the helm. She was talking about something, but Finnegan had drifted off in his own thoughts.
“What?” she asked, noticing him staring into her eyes.
“My apologies,” he said. “It’s just that I have never met someone as enchanting as you.”
Both of them blushed. “Your presence is soothing,” he continued. “I have never met someone who was like me. We see the world around us in a different way.”
She smiled, and her hand slowly brushed against his. “I, too, have never met anyone as fascinating as you. Thank you for welcoming me, Jack.”
Finnegan was pleased by her use of his first name. “You are most welcome. And it is I who must thank you, Elizabeth.”
Their lips met, and a passionate kiss erupted between them, lasting only a few seconds before they both pulled apart in shock. The rest of the crew had gone silent at their public display of affection.
That is, until the first mate let out a whistle.
“Well, it’s about bloody time!”
That launched the crew into a frenzy of applause and wolf-whistling. They raised their drinks and partied harder.
“I apologize,” Finnegan whispered.
Tier let out a soft giggle. Then, she gazed in Father Rodriguez’s direction. The priest was the life of the party—he sang, danced and regaled the crew with tales and myths which Finnegan suspected where only partially true.
“I think Father Rodriguez can distract your men for a few more hours,” she suggested with a grin. They kissed again, before sneaking off.
It wasn’t a difficult feat to sneak past drunken sailors and into the captain’s quarters. Their instincts overtook them, and as their passion evolved into a physical act, their minds connected and, for the most fleeting of moments, two souls became one.
***
It was hours later in the dead of night when Finnegan sat up in his bed, giving up on sleep. His mind refused to cease functioning, and he decided to spend a few moments of his time writing in his log.
His gaze followed the naked figure in his bed, partially covered in sheets. Her golden hair splayed on the pillow, catching the gentle candlelight fire. He smiled, and his chest fluttered. No woman had ever instilled such feelings within him. He had to force himself to stop staring at her and return to his pen.
The Belladonna’s voyage towards Baja California goes unhindered. Whilst, at first, the crew exhibited reluctance to go into enemy territory, they were elated at the prospect of undiscovered treasure. As with most pirates, one can almost always count on their lust for coin.
My visions have shown me the course ahead: one that goes south along the
Atlantic, following our original course as set by the Letter of Marque, and across colder seas at the furthest tip of the New Continent. There we will go back north, along the Spanish conquered south lands in the Pacific. Once we go over the entrance to the Caribbean, we shall come to our destination. I have managed to fool the crew into thinking that our duties include exploring newer routes. They posed no objection, especially when I promised each man double his shares. Their enthusiasm quickly returned, and they made ready. I have faith in the Belladonna: she is among the best of ships and if any vessel can make this voyage, it’s sure to be her.
I have learned so much about my abilities. There is meaning behind everything, as I have been taught by Duchess Elizabeth Tier. Over our conversations we have grown closer, until our attraction could no longer be denied. On this night of merrymaking and conquering of storms, we have finally succumbed to our passions. Never have I felt such emotion—perhaps this, too, is one of our strange abilities.
Or perhaps, it is because of them that such emotions emerge. Regardless, I am happy, and determined more than ever to see this voyage to its conclusion.
However, by accepting this mission to El Dorado, we have become pirates. In essence, we are all dead men, completely alone in this vast ocean.
May God truly bless us,
Jack Finnegan,
Captain of the Belladonna,
Pirate and Select.
Chapter 8
The course Finnegan plotted led the Belladonna to one of the scattered islands on the Pacific peninsula, jutting from the mainland.
After two excruciating months of freezing weather and unexplored lands, the crew was happy to sail familiar waters once more, even if they were more likely to encounter enemy ships.
Finnegan’s heightened perception and navigational abilities led him on a covert route and, perhaps by some divine intervention, neither enemy nor storm affronted the Belladonna.
They ended up on a small island, long ago abandoned by colonial settlers. Nature saw to that, as it plagued the island with frequent floods and vicious hurricanes.
The jungle hindered the crew’s journey and they were forced to hack a clear path with their swords in order to keep up with Tier and Finnegan—like two possessed souls, the couple took the vanguard and weaved in between the vegetation, like a breeze. They knew that their destiny lay ahead, and some universal force seemed to pull them towards it.
