Strangers in Atlantis (Seaborne)

by Matt Myklusch

  No, Dean thought. He refused to believe his friends would leave him. They would be there with Verrick. He just had to clear the jungle before the sun went down.

  Dean pressed on through the leafy green labyrinth. He got turned around more than once. His head was pounding, and the jungle faded in and out of focus. He realized he must have hit his head harder than he thought. Dean needed to rest, but he couldn’t afford to stop moving. Soon everything was spinning. He took a break and steadied himself against a tree. No use—he was ready to collapse when at last he heard the waves lapping against the bay shore.

  A burst of energy surged into Dean’s legs, and he stumbled through an opening in the trees to emerge safely on the opposite end of the island. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes. The ship was there. He had made it. He could relax.

  The hammers cocked on a dozen rifles, and Dean blinked his eyes open. The ship in the bay was not the Tideturner. The flag it flew was the Union Jack, and Dean’s friends were nowhere to be found. In their place, he saw a contingent of English sailors with their muskets locked and loaded. Off to the side stood their captain, resplendent in his crisp blue-and-white uniform.

  “Stay there, if you please.”

  Dean put his hands up. He said nothing.

  The captain motioned for one of his men to inspect Dean. “See if he’s our man. Or boy, as the case may be.”

  The sailor checked the inside of Dean’s left arm and found a tattoo in the shape of three wave crests rising inside a circle. One-Eyed Jack had branded him with the mark long ago.

  “It’s him,” said the sailor.

  A superior smile formed on the captain’s lips. “Dean Seaborne. Last of the pirate king’s spies. Young sir, you are under arrest.”

  Chapter 3

  The Dock of the Bay

  “All rise!”

  The court officer’s booming voice echoed through the room. Everyone present got up on their feet at his command, but not Dean. He was already standing in the dock.

  “The court will now hear the matter of the Crown versus Dean Seaborne, the Right Honorable Lord Justice Wellington presiding.”

  A large old man wearing red robes with black trim ambled into the courtroom and took his seat at the bench. The judge had bags under his eyes and thick, rubbery jowls that made him look like a hound dog in a powdered wig. He exhaled loudly as he sat down and the rest of his legal entourage filed in. He was followed by the chairman of the court and the mayor of Port Royal, an English harbor on the island of Jamaica, where Dean had been taken for his trial. The mayor had no power in the courtroom, but he had been granted a seat on the bench as a courtesy, which was the custom. Also there to assist the Lord Justice were two local magistrates and two barristers, one for the prosecution and the other for the defense. Dean didn’t know any of them. He just knew the court had gotten a lot of people out of bed that morning to hang little old him.

  The jury came in last. Twelve good men and true, as Dean had heard people say. He wished he had a friend among their number. Dean’s only friends were up in the gallery, along with the other people who had come to watch the show.

  Ronan and Waverly sat in the front row, sporting guilt-ridden faces. Verrick sat with them. He was an older gentleman with a full head of stark white hair and a short, thick beard. With his caring, grandfatherly face, Verrick mouthed the words, Steady on, and offered Dean a reassuring nod. Waverly and Ronan attempted similar looks of encouragement. Dean forced a thin smile for them, but there was no hope behind it. Not in this place. Port Royal had once been a thriving pirate stronghold, but the English had since turned it into a place of execution.

  Dean envied Ronan’s spot in the gallery. Ronan had been a pirate too, but he had done his dirty work with the Pirate Youth. None of their victims had ever spoken a word to anyone about their raids. The sailors on the ships that Ronan’s crew hit were always too embarrassed to admit they had been bested by a crew made up of children. Dean, on the other hand, could not hide who he had been. He looked down at the triple-wave tattoo on the inside of his left arm.

  The mark had served many purposes. Its presence on Dean’s arm had meant that he could stand before any pirate in One-Eyed Jack’s Black Fleet and identify himself as one of their own. It had also meant Dean could be more easily spotted and tracked if he ever tried to escape his sworn duty to One-Eyed Jack. The cursed mark had hounded Dean while One-Eyed Jack was still alive and continued to do so even after the man’s death.

  The world was not a safe place for pirates anymore. Shortly after One-Eyed Jack had gotten himself swallowed up by that sea serpent, the surviving members of his Black Fleet started fighting over who should inherit the mantle of leadership. In the end, no one did. The pirates’ infighting made them easy pickings for agents of the Crown, and the English navy rounded up most of the Black Fleet when it took their stronghold at Bartleby Bay. The navy didn’t stop there, either. It recovered One-Eyed Jack’s black book, a list of every pirate who had ever signed into his service, and went to work crossing off names. Spies like Dean became marked men in more ways than one, as the English made their push to clean up the waters of the Caribbean.

  Lord Justice Wellington cleared his throat. When he coughed, it sounded like he had a pound of seaweed in his gullet. “Dean Seaborne,” he croaked, “you stand accused of piracy, a most heinous crime. How do you plead?”

  Dean squirmed in his little wooden pen, wondering how best to answer the judge’s question. Guilty, but it wasn’t my fault? Guilty, but with a good explanation? That wouldn’t do. He looked to his barrister. The man who was there to represent Dean said nothing. He was a distracted, disinterested fellow whose name Dean had already forgotten. Dean had met him briefly before the trial, and the encounter had done nothing to boost his spirits. His barrister looked like he had been out all night carousing, and had nodded off twice while they discussed his defense. Dean was on his own.

  “I’m innocent, your honor,” Dean said.

  The judge aimed a knowing smile at the Crown prosecutor. Dean got the sense that neither man had ever heard a pirate claim otherwise. The prosecutor stifled a laugh, as did the two local magistrates on the bench. A few members of the jury even tittered along with them.

  So much for a fair trial, thought Dean.

  “The Crown may call its first witness,” said the judge.

  The prosecutor rose from his seat. He was a serious man, the polar opposite of his counterpart. “May it please the court, the Crown calls Captain Wallace Grimmault.”

  Dean looked around the courtroom. He didn’t recognize the name, but the face of the man who climbed into the witness stand was familiar. Dean’s stomach turned cold as the man placed what had once been his right hand on the Bible and swore that the testimony he gave the court would be the truth. The prosecutor apologized and instructed Grimmault to repeat the gesture with his intact left hand. Dean was sure the misunderstanding had been rehearsed, but he found it no less effective for that.

  “Please state your name for the record,” said the prosecutor.

  “Wallace Grimmault,” said the witness.

  “Not Captain Wallace Grimmault?”

  The witness shook his head. “No sir. Not anymore.”

  Grimmault was a slight man, thinner than Dean remembered. Most of the former captain’s face disappeared behind a bushy brown beard that was flecked with gray, but his eyes stood out. They simmered with anger. Wallace Grimmault had combed his short hair neatly and put on his finest clothes, which were not very fine. He was a poor man who had fallen on hard times, and Dean knew exactly when they had begun.

  “Do you know the accused?” asked the prosecutor, motioning to Dean.

  Grimmault tilted his head. “That depends.”

  The prosecutor turned. “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t know anyone called Dean Seaborne, but I do know the boy standing in the dock.”

  The prosecutor feigned confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Please expl
ain.”

  “He came aboard my ship as a cabin boy, two years ago. Presented himself as a Master Tom Hawkins.” Grimmault shrugged. “Seemed a nice enough lad. Hard worker, did his duties ably. Everyone liked him. Wasn’t long before he knew everything there was to know about the Audrey May. That was my ship, you see. We made three trips with him on board without any problems. Just minor shipments here in the islands. Nothing of any great value. That all changed when we were engaged to transport Lord Giles Nedley and his family on holiday.”

  The prosecutor put on a concerned face. “What happened then?”

  “Pirates,” Grimmault said. “Sunk us off the coast of Tortuga. Took Lord Nedley and his family hostage.”

  “I remember this story,” said the prosecutor. “If I’m not mistaken, Lord Nedley and his family were ransomed back to their relations in London at a considerable cost.”

  “Aye, sir. We all paid a price that day.” Grimmault held up his hook. “For some of us, no amount of money can bring back what we lost.”

  Grimmault lowered his hand and stared at Dean, who found it impossible to meet the man’s gaze.

  “And you believe that this boy was a willing accomplice of the pirates who attacked you?” the prosecutor asked Grimmault.

  “I know he was.”

  The Crown prosecutor put a finger to his lips, as if considering the idea for the first time. “Forgive me, sir. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and you have my sympathy, but how can you be sure? What proof do you have that Dean Seaborne was at the heart of this vile scheme?”

  “I was there!” Grimmault thundered. “I saw! The pirate captain spared him. Only him. He checked the mark on the lad’s arm and recognized him as one of his confederates. He took him with the hostages and left the rest of us to drown. Was luck alone that saved our lives, as another ship passed through soon after.”

  A dreadful murmur ran through the jury. Satisfied, the prosecutor returned to his seat. “No further questions, your honor.”

  “Cross-examination?” the judge asked lazily.

  He received no reply from Dean’s counsel.

  The judge gave an impatient, attention-seeking cough. More seaweed phlegm that would never be dredged up from his throat. But he succeeded in catching the eye of Dean’s representative.

  “Hmn?” Dean’s lawyer asked. “No, thank you. No questions, your honor.” He spoke with the air of a man politely declining a tray of cakes at tea.

  “No questions?” Dean blurted out. “You’re not going to ask him anything?”

  Another rumbling cough poured out of the judge. “The defendant is instructed not to speak unless spoken to. Your barrister will speak for you.”

  “But he’s not saying anything,” Dean protested.

  Dean’s barrister poked a spot of crust from his eye. “What’s that?”

  “Tell them what I told you! I was there against my will.”

  Dean’s barrister fought back a yawn. “I can’t tell the witness anything. I’m only empowered to ask questions.”

  “Then ask him! What makes him think I was a willing accomplice?”

  The judge banged his gavel. “The defendant will be silent.”

  Grimmault pointed his hook at Dean. “You held up that tattoo and identified yourself as One-Eyed Jack’s man. Do you deny it?”

  Dean shook his head. “You don’t understand. I was forced into that life.”

  “Then it’s true,” the Crown prosecutor observed. “You were there as a spy.”

  “A-ha!” Grimmault said. “He admits it!”

  “Objection!” Dean called out.

  “Order! Order in the court!” The judge pounded his gavel hard enough to splinter the wood. “The defendant will be silent or the sergeant-at-mace will see that he is removed!”

  “But—”

  “One more word, young man—one more!—and I will hold you in contempt! Do you wish to be tried in absentia?”

  Dean held his tongue. He didn’t know where absentia was, but he had no desire to find out. The judge continued his reprimand.

  “You will be afforded the opportunity to make a statement in your defense at the end of the trial. Until then? Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Dean said, sufficiently chastened.

  “Next witness!” shouted the judge.

  Dean sighed as another witness took the stand to tell the world of his crimes. One after the other, familiar faces appeared to recount the horrors that had been done to them at the hands of One-Eyed Jack’s men.

  There were people who had lost everything:

  We had planned to start a new life in the colonies. We were so happy and full of hope. That all ended the day the pirates sacked our ship.

  There were people who had been marooned:

  The buccaneers left us on an island no bigger than this room. Left us with nothing! Not even a drop of water!

  There were people who had lost their loved ones:

  My husband was on board the H.M.S. Adventure when it went down. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him and curse the pirates who took him from us. Because of them, my son will never know his father!

  Dean’s heart sank a little further with each weepy tale of woe. They were all terrible, and all true. He wished it were otherwise, but the part he played in each sad story was undeniable. In every case, he had been the one who had made the raid possible. He had been the one sent to find out the ship’s cargo, where it was going, and when. He had identified the most profitable moment to strike and relayed that information to One-Eyed Jack’s Black Fleet.

  Without any cross-examination of the witnesses, whether Dean had a choice in the matter never came up. He had been raised by pirates, and that life was all he had known. Dean had once tried to escape his profession and nearly got fed to a family of sharks for his trouble, but no one asked about that. Meanwhile, his barrister openly snored.

  As the trial wore on, no contrast emerged to the picture being painted of Dean as a heartless pirate spy. It would’ve been a hard point to argue, even if the judge had allowed Dean to make the argument. The witnesses’ testimony hit him as hard as anyone. He remembered every raid the witnesses mentioned, but it was one thing to know about a crime. It was quite another to learn the human cost of it.

  Dean had never known what became of the Black Fleet’s victims after the fighting was over. Those details would stick with him now, as would the faces of the grieving widows and teary-eyed children in court. He could only imagine what the jury thought of him. And Waverly . . . she turned greener around the gills with each heartbreaking story. Eventually, she could listen to no more and hurried out of the courtroom. Verrick followed, her dutiful guardian.

  Dean braced himself for the next witness, but at long last, the prosecutor declined to call one. Having built a strong (if not unassailable) case against Dean, he stated, “The prosecution rests, your honor.”

  Dean was still looking at the door that Waverly had left through when he heard his barrister mumble, “The defense also rests.”

  “What?” Dean’s head whipped around. “No, we don’t!”

  The bumbling barrister leaned forward with his elbows on the table before him. “Yes, rest,” he said, massaging his temples. “Oh, I need rest.”

  “Your honor,” Dean said, “I haven’t had a chance to speak.”

  Dean’s plea met with the familiar rapping of a gavel. “The defense has rested,” said the judge. “If it was your intention to speak, you should have arranged that with your representative before now.”

  “You’re not serious,” Dean said. “Of course I wanted to speak. I told you that! You said I’d get the chance to make a statement!”

  “It is not the responsibility of this court to manage your defense strategy.”

  “Strategy? What strategy? Look at him!” Dean thrust both hands at the wastrel assigned to speak in his defense. The judge was unmoved. “This trial is a farce!” Dean spat. “A travesty!”

&n
bsp; The court members gasped.

  “What did you say?” coughed the judge, clearly rattled.

  “You heard me,” Dean scowled. Rage bubbled up inside of him. He knew he was crossing a line, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was on trial for his life, and the game was rigged. “You’re not even giving me a chance! What am I doing here if you won’t let me defend myself?”

  “Have it your way, young man.” The judge gave a nod to the sergeant-at-mace, a stone-faced wall of a man who carried an actual mace. He grabbed Dean and pulled him from the dock.

  “No!” Dean shouted as he was forcibly removed from the courtroom. “This isn’t fair! It’s not fair!”

  Dean protested his ejection all the way out the door, but it gained him nothing. He was not allowed back into court until it was time for the jury to read the verdict. They took less than five minutes to find him guilty as charged.

  Chapter 4

  Just Passing Through

  Lord Justice Wellington was surprisingly lenient when it came time for Dean’s sentencing. He must have had a soft spot in his heart for children, because he overlooked the tantrum Dean had thrown at the end of his trial and handed down the merciful sentence of ninety-five years in prison. At first, Dean didn’t appreciate what a gift he’d been given, but the judge explained how this was all for Dean’s betterment as a person. He reminded Dean that death was the standard punishment for pirates and suggested that he look on the bright side of things.

  “In addition to avoiding the hangman’s noose, I’m granting you the opportunity to shave years off your sentence. All it takes is good behavior. If you prove to be a model inmate, you could be a free man in just . . .” The judge paused to do some quick math at the bench. “Eighty-two years!”

  Everyone appeared to be pleased with the verdict, except for Ronan and three rough-looking men in the back row. Dean hadn’t noticed them before, but they stood out to him now. There was a dreadlocked Jamaican, a towering man who could barely squeeze into his seat, and a third man who stood out simply by being ugly as sin. They had cleaned up as best they could, but Dean knew pirates when he saw them. The question was, what were they doing here? If Dean were one of them, he wouldn’t come near this island, let alone its courtroom.