Gunpowder & Gold (Justified Treason, Book 4): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories

by Cristi Taijeron

  “No! No! Please don’t leave me.” Clawing at the chains on my ankles, I screamed and thrashed until the binds turned to serpents, slithering around my legs. The smoke from the fire was rising. My enemies were laughing. An all-out war broke out around me. With men killing and dying in every direction, the demonic snakes crept up my torso and began wrapping themselves around my neck. Falling short of breath, I laid down to die. Through the roaring flames encroaching upon me, I heard Sterling shout, “Fight, Charlie, fight.”

  Though he was nowhere to be seen, his words were strong enough to inspire my will to survive. Grabbing one of the cursed snakes, I ripped it off of my neck and jumped to my feet. Brandishing my cutlass, I fought through the crowd. Alone. I was not afraid. No. I could never again be afraid.

  Raging like a fire myself, I burned through all the obstacles in my path. The remaining snakes withered and fell from my body. The fire abruptly died down around me. In the sudden silence that overtook the scene, I found myself alone on a peaceful beach.

  With the gulls squawking overhead and the pleasant island breeze whipping through my hair, my soul instantly felt at ease. Taking a deep breath to absorb the beauty around me, I noticed something sticking out of the sand under the shade of a palm. Hiking up my white dress, I walked towards the strange object. My blood ran cold when I realized it was a tombstone. The moment I laid eyes on the name engraved upon it, my heart froze in my chest. Charlotte Wetherby. No! Thinking of the girl in the portrait at my father’s house, I dropped to my knees.

  After a painful moment of silence passed, I rose to my feet. Leaving my sword by her grave like a flower, I whispered to the breeze, Rest in peace. As I turned to walk away, I looked at the wound on my shoulder. Shaped like a thorny rose vine, the twisted mess of welted flesh was lined in dark ink. While staring at the black rose on my shoulder, I woke up.

  Catching my breath, I glanced around. Sterling was sleeping in a chair across from me. I was in a tent. The canvas flap was open, and through the opening, I could see the aqua shades of the sea in the distance. I was truly awake this time, and for once, I did not want to go back to sleep. Peering back at Sterling, I eyed the way his suntanned chest—inked with his compass rose tattoo—rose and fell as he breathed. His long, light-brown hair hung over his shoulders and I admired the way the tips had lightened from the sun. He was one good looking man—muscles sculpted from hard work and skin scarred from the many fights he had fought throughout his lifetime—and as I once again thanked the Lord that he was my husband, I sighed out loud.

  Just as I thought I would wake him and thank him for taking care of me while I had been lost in my painful haze, I set sight on that damned opium pipe I’d been smoking from. Staring at the thing sitting atop the barrel next to my makeshift bed, I shook my head in disgust. “Bugger off, Lady Opium.”

  Sterling’s eyes shot open. “You’re awake,” he grumbled, sitting upright in his chair.

  “I am. Where are we?” My voice cracked.

  “Virgin Gorda.”

  “Oh,” I sighed in relief. “Much better than the terrible places I have been visiting in my drug induced nightmares.”

  “Aye, hearing the shit you’ve been mumbling, I can only imagine the things you were seeing.” He set a mug of water on the barrel next to me, then ran his hand down my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  With the breeze blowing through the doorway, I was no longer annoyed by the warmth of his touch, but my arm still hurt like hell. “I feel like I just fought a war.” I yawned as I sat up, my arm aching as I stretched.

  “You did.” He chuckled. “And you won it, too.”

  I shot him a wicked squint. “We did.” Trying to stand up, I held my aching arm. “Ah. Shit. Is this going to hurt forever?”

  “It’s only been three days, love. I reckon it will be a good month before you feel well again, but I’m here to do whatever I can to help the time pass.”

  “I love you, Sterling Mason Bentley.” I reached up and played with his goatee.

  “I love you, too, Charlotte Bentley.”

  Unable to shake the ghostly memory of attending my own funeral, I sighed, “Charlotte died, Sterling. That sweet young girl lives no longer. But a rose has sprouted from the ashes of her fallen body. The thorns are wickedly sharp, the petals are black as the night, and she is afraid of nothing. Her name is Black Rose.”

  Laying his face in his hand, he chuckled softly. “No more opium for you, angel. Let’s go for a walk on the beach and let the sun warm your pretty cheeks.

  Chapter 2

  Damnation Seize My Soul

  As Told By Sterling Bentley

  Written by Sterling Bentley:

  December 10th 1668

  Sitting under a shade tent on the beach, I write here at my makeshift desk with a turquoise bay before me. Surrounded by other such tents, with wet clothes strung across the lines and half-dressed men wandering about, I’m relishing the feel of my bare feet resting in the cool damp sand. As much as I love the open ocean, I find these times ashore just as enjoyable—in a completely different way. It’s calm, quiet, and relaxing. The breeze is blowing lightly through the palms, I have a tasty Spanish cigarro in one hand, and there’s a glass of rum here near my inkwell. It’s a great day to be a free man, and I can’t imagine celebrating this holiday ashore in any better a way.

  B

  X

  Rolling out a black piece of fabric on the desk outside of my tent, I stared at it again. I’d been doing this every day for the past two weeks, hoping the right idea would come to mind, but once again, nothing. I’ve painted quite a few Jolly Rogers in my day, but this being my first time leading a crew of my very own, I wanted this one to be my best flag yet.

  Stroking my goatee, I stared deep into the blackness. Finally, I envisioned a desirable death head. Figuring it best to run with it, I grabbed my brush and started painting. With the first touch of color coating the canvas, my imagination began to flow. Before I knew it, I was adding one sword at a diagonal angle behind the skull. Twisting a thorny rose vine around the blade and hilt, I touched it up with two shades of green, then darkened the tips of the thorns. Naturally, I chose red for the rose that lay across the tip of the sword, but as a last minute thought, I added drops of blood falling from the petals.

  Standing back to admire my work, I smiled with pride.

  Hearing the canvas door flap open behind me, I turned to see Charlie walk out with rosy cheeks and messy hair. Scratching her head, she sat down on the chair next to mine. Eyeing my flag, she yawned, “Beautifully wicked, darling. I absolutely love it.”

  “Hopefully that’s not what the Spanish say when they see it.” I laughed.

  “Of course not. They will say, Me encanta el rosa malvados.” She giggled. Seminole Joe had been teaching her Spanish, so she was using it every chance she could.

  “Well, whatever the hell anyone has to say about it, it’s damned done.”

  “And I am damned done being sober.” She looked around. “Is there any rum nearby?”

  She had been drinking more than ever to abate the pain of her healing stab wound. But anything was better than that cursed opium that she had at one point grown too fond of.

  “I’ve got a coconut ready for you. But let’s clean your scar first.” While I put the paints away, I asked her, “How’s it feeling today?”

  “It still hurts,” she whimpered, but there was a faint smile peeking out from behind her dramatic pout.

  “Of course it hurts. You were stabbed and then cauterized. But you’ve been tough, and it looks much better already.” I dipped a clean mug in the bucket of saltwater I had ready for her. Joseph Rolland, my quartermaster—who my wife had recently had an affair with—also happened to be the ship’s healer, and though he had been keeping his distance from Charlie, he had let me know that the salt in the sea water would help to dry out her wound.

  Being used to the daily cleaning routine, Charlie pulled down the collar of her shirt and removed the
bandage from her shoulder. Clenching her teeth and closing her eyes, she tensed up as I poured the saltwater over the healing flesh of her burn-mark. As the water flowed over her skin, she said, “Oh. It hardly even hurts now that the wound is almost closed.”

  With the job done, she leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the table. “Now, for my rum filled coconut.” She held her hand out to me as if I were her personal servant.

  “As you wish, my queen.” I handed her the coconut, then kicked my feet up on the table as well.

  Setting her gaze on our Wicked Rose, she said, “It looks like the careening is going well, Captain Bentley.”

  “Sure is. And considering her bad reputation, we’ve made some plans to refit her image. A little paint on the hull and reshaping of the trim line will keep her profile unfamiliar from afar—which will allow us to get closer to our prey. Inappropriate Jon has been leading the job, and I’ll tell you, that mate’s the best damned carpenter I’ve ever sailed with.”

  “He makes for a decent surgeon, too.” Charlie traced the outline of the stab wound he had cauterized for her.

  I agreed while lighting my cigarro. As she watched me do so, she reached for one. “I want to try one of those.”

  “You do?” I choked on my smoke.

  “Yes. I am starting to like how they smell.”

  “As you wish, my sweet.” I lit one and handed it to her.

  As I knew she would, she choked like a dying old man. With her hand over her wound—which was probably bothered by the violent coughing fit—she insisted, “I am determined to look good doing this afore the day is done.”

  While laughing at her ridiculous persistence, I heard the melody of a violin floating across the salty air. Rolland was playing a tune. Once Charlie got her coughing fit under control, she looked towards the source of music and began humming along with the song he was singing. “Music always makes a good day better.”

  “Aye to that.” I raised my coconut to toast with hers.

  Setting her gaze on my journal, her eyes lit up. “May I write in your book, Sterling? I won’t read your pages.”

  “You can read it all you want. I have nothing to keep from you, beauty.” I passed her the book.

  “Oh, then I will read every single entry.” She giggled, then opened the book.

  After dipping the quill in the inkwell, she wrote on the inside cover:

  This is the book of two buccaneer lovers.

  Fierce for one another as they are for freedom itself.

  “I like that. Except you can’t be calling yourself a buccaneer until you hunt a boar, make a boucan, and plunder Spanish gold.”

  Squinting at me slyly, she said, “Is that all? Even with my injured arm, I assure you I will be a buccaneer before this trip is over.”

  I laughed. “And if not, I’ll cross it out and fix it.”

  “There will be no such need.” She poked my arm and then returned her attention to the book.

  When taking note of the date on the page I had just written, she gasped. “It is Christmas Day! We must have a celebration. A great festival of feast and drink. We’ll need music. How many instruments do we have around here? Oh, and we’ll give gifts…”

  While she carried on with her outlandish list of ideas, I looked out towards the bay to watch the men in the longboat. They had rowed out a while ago, and though I had no idea what they were up to, I had been quite amused by their drunken shouts and jolly laughter.

  Completely ignoring Charlie’s rambling, I watched Seminole Joe shush the men in the boat with him. Once they were silent, he reached into the water with a gaff hook. The son of a bitch hooked a shark, and pulled it into the boat. All of the men jumped and screamed like little lassies with nowhere to run as the beast flopped around. Just as Yakob was slapped senseless by the shark’s tail, Seminole Joe hacked his tomahawk into the sea creature’s back—stilling it for good.

  Laughing like a mad man, that Seminole held the blood covered beast up for all to see. From our distance I heard him shout, “Dinner.”

  While I laughed, Charlie hooted, “It will be our Christmas feast!”

  Dirty and Yakob were happy to take on the challenge of shark hunting, but Jameson pleaded to be brought back to shore. Blatantly ignoring his request, the men stayed in the bay and caught a few more as the day went on.

  The men dragged the dead sharks to shore well before sunset. As they began slicing up the meat, I sat in the shade with Toby, the sixteen-year-old slave boy I had set free in the mutiny that won us the reign over Wicked Rose. After taking a shot of rum, I asked him, “You don’t drink, mate?”

  “I never have. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ever.” He flashed a bright, friendly smile.

  Curious about his joyful demeanor, I asked, “So what’s your story, Toby? For only recently having been enslaved, you’re rather jolly all the time.”

  He scratched at his close shaven hair that was beginning to grow. “Well, for one, I was a house servant, and the old lady of the house treated me well. But even so, I suppose I’m just happy to be free. Wish I could say the same about my pa, though.” He nodded his head towards Edward who was sitting on a rock sharpening a spear. “He was a powerful warrior and leader in his tribe back in Africa, but the years of slavery have beaten him down. I’ve been hoping he’d come around now that he’s free again, but he’s just as cranky as ever.”

  Understanding the way slavery could do that to a man, I shook my head sadly. “Considering the fight that ol’ bloke put up during the mutiny, I bet he was one hell of a leader when he was last free. But you’re right. I haven’t heard him say one word to anyone aboard. Hell, I didn’t even know he was your father.”

  Toby looked down. “He hardly speaks any English, but even if he could, he hates everyone and probably wouldn’t talk anyway.”

  Regardless of Edward’s justified bitterness, I was glad to see Toby in good spirits. “Well, glad to have you both aboard. And I reckon it’s time you get a little taste of rum.”

  Handing him the bottle, I watched him take an enormous gulp as if he had already acquired a taste for it. Of course, he spit it out all over his dirty shirt. “Awful! How the hell do you drink that shit? And so much of it?”

  We talked for a while about rum and the other joys of this wild life at sea as the sun fell low on the horizon. Eventually the savory aromas filling the evening air lured us towards the canopy of trees where Hawke was cooking. The rest of the crew joined us, and there we sloppily participated in the gift giving event Charlie organized. Among all the rocks, rum bottles, and coconuts we handed to each other, Seminole Joe gave us each a shark tooth. Handing me mine, he said, “You can carve some of your art on it. Maybe your compass or Charlie’s Black Rose. Ladies like gifts like that.”

  “Aye. Seeing how she’s tolerated my arse for over a year now, I reckon she’s due for a little prize.” I winked and thanked him for the tooth, and the idea.

  We all laughed and jested with senseless jabber while we waited for the meat to cook, and it didn’t seem like long at all until Hawke was serving our dinner. The stew was a basic mix of salt pork, beans and onions, and was good as ever. But the smoked flavor of the shark meat, mixed with the tropical fruit and spices, made for one of the best things I ever tasted.

  Full and satisfied, I leaned against the rock behind me and watched the sun set over the sea, while the men carried on around the fire.

  Plopping down next to me, Charlie tipped her empty mug upside down and sighed. “Well, that was some terrible planning. I should have gotten more rum before I sat down.”

  Dirty patted her back. “Let me get you some more, Black Rose.” He sliced open another bottle, poured some into her mug, and then refilled his own barrel shaped wooden one.

  “Thank you, Master Dirty.” After taking a sip, Charlie raised her brow. “How the hell did you get that name anyhow?”

  Though braced with a wide array of medieval weapons, Dirty smiled at my lady like a gentleman. “
You see, my father was hanged for piracy and my mother was sent back to Ireland, leaving me to fend for myself at the young age of fifteen. Taking odd jobs at the taverns, I had to learn to fight to keep up with the rough way of living. I got by well enough ashore, but it being a family tradition to sail the seas, I answered her call shortly after I turned sixteen. All along the way, it was my own dirty tactics which granted me the name you call me by.”

  “Great story, mate.” Charlie clashed mugs with him. “I love knowing where all your crazy nicknames derive from. Like you, Inappropriate Jon. I can’t imagine you got that name for being a sweetheart.”

  Raising his bottle of rum, the master carpenter smiled. “Ah, but there be plenty of wenches who call me Irresistible Jon.”

  We all laughed about that one.

  After talking around the fire for a while, a game broke out. Someone came up with the great idea of having a man standing with a bottle on his shoulder, while another tossed a coconut to knock it off. Knowing damn well that such a game could all too easily go awry, I sat on a rock to watch the show, ready to break up the fights that I was sure would soon be taking place.

  Toby was happy to run between the men gathering coconuts and picking up the rum bottles—doing his fair share of instigating along the way. After a few rounds went fair enough, he set the rum bottles at one end, supplied the attackers’ station with a good amount of coconut ammunition, then hollered, “Who’s next?”

  As Dirty and Relando lined up to play, Toby took a seat on the rock beside me. “Watching these drunkards makes me glad I didn’t like that rum.”

  Laughing at his comment, I took another shot. “After being around this kind long enough, you’ll be needing the rum to keep sane.”