Devil Ship: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Devil Ship Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  ***

  After firing off a few emails to contacts back in the US, Joe went to a bar Rudy had recommended. This was, according to the cabbie, a place where locals tended to congregate, off the main boulevard, and a place that attracted few tourists. Joe found it promising. With its pool table, dartboard, and the TV showing a cricket match, it had the feel of a working man’s place. He took a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. The barmaid, a plump local girl, did not seem inclined to gossip. Once she had served Joe, she went back to chat with a group of friends, just out of earshot.

  There was a big mirror behind the bar and Joe surveyed the clientele discreetly. He suspected that people knew who he was, as gossip traveled fast among small populations. And, it seemed, outsiders seldom set up businesses there. Joe had found that the hotels were all locally owned, independent establishments. The same went for restaurants, pubs and so on. There was no McDonald’s in Port Louis, no familiar names other than the rental car firm. It seemed as if much of the modern world had passed the island by.

  He took another sip of beer and waited for someone to strike up a conversation. In his experience, people in small towns tended to talk to strangers out of sheer curiosity. The cricket match was, however, proving more interesting than Joe. There was a lot of commentary on the apparent failings of the West Indies team, which seemed to be playing in England against South Africa. He idly gazed up at the screen, wondering if he should try to learn the rules of the oddly hypnotic, British game.

  Then he frowned. Dangling below the TV was a crook-necked monkey charm. He scanned the patrons more closely and saw that most, if not all, were wearing similar charms, around their necks or wrists. The charms were also slightly different from those offered to tourists. By and large, they were old, worn, dull-colored—not designed for show, he thought wryly, but for utility. The monkeys were often worn along with crucifixes, Joe noted, suggesting that Catholics did not see any contradiction between the local superstition and their faith.

  “You are the man who owns Pirate Cove, now, yes?”

  The old man had appeared beside Joe as if by magic. He was short, stocky, with white hair and a neat beard that contrasted with his dark skin. He placed an empty glass down and signaled to the barmaid, who rolled her eyes and walked over slowly. Most people, Joe had noticed, took their time in this humid climate.

  “You not had enough today, Billy?” she asked, but she was already pulling another pint. “And you want me to put this on the tab, I suppose?”

  “Here, let me get this—make it two, please,” said Joe, gulping down most of his own drink.

  “Very generous of you, sir,” said Billy. “Of course, I was banking on it. You are here to find things out, eh? I am happy to talk. This match is very depressing. Another defeat for our boys. But you are not interested in games, I think?”

  “No,” Joe admitted. “I’m fishing for information. About a particular ship that I keep seeing, which seems to be taking an interest in my investment. I guess they’re not doing anything illegal—”

  The barmaid set down two more beers and Joe handed over some local dollars. Billy downed half of his pint in one gulp and set the glass down with a satisfied sound. Then he glanced around at the clientele.

  “None of the men on that ship come in here. They would not be welcome. But they are welcome at the governor’s mansion, over on the other side of a harbor at Torbay. Some people have no respect for the dead. I find they are also the ones with no respect for the living.”

  Joe felt his heart sink at the mention of the dead. Was the old man going to tell him another ghost story, more confused tales of demons and pirates? That would be a poor return, even for one cheap beer. But as Billy went on, Joe’s interest revived. By the time he had stood the old man two more pints, Joe was sure he understood exactly what was going on.

  Now he knew why outsiders at Pirate Cove might be unwelcome. He had never believed in the supernatural. But he had a healthy grasp of human greed and dishonesty.

  ***

  “And Arthur rested by a lake, where he had a dream that his son, Mordred, would betray him and destroy the realm!” Miss Mountjoy said. “But he also dreamed that, though mortally wounded in the final battle, he still wielded the sword Excalibur, and with it, killed Mordred the traitor!”

  Some of the children were open-mouthed, utterly silent, as the librarian finished her tale. Sara felt herself starting to tear up, not just because of a great story so well told, but because of the children’s utterly sincere reactions. One spoke up as the librarian closed her book.

  “But Mam’selle Mountjoy, surely King Arthur will not die?”

  “Ah, Charlotte, that is a story for another day, and a very strange and wonderful story it is,” said the old lady in her precise, very English manner. “A tale of the mystical Isle of Avalon. But now you must go with Miss Lepage. I think it is time for your lunch.”

  Sara had been so absorbed in the story and the reaction it produced that she had not seen a plump young woman appear beside her. The young teacher beamed at Miss Mountjoy and expressed the hope that the children would thank her nicely.

  “Merci, Mam’selle Mountjoy,” chorused the girls, then they got up and began to troop out, some looking up at Sara with friendly curiosity.

  “I enjoyed that,” she told Miss Mountjoy. “I’m glad I didn’t throw you off your stride. Can I come back and hear what happens next?”

  “Same time next week, and everyone is welcome!” said the librarian. “But be warned, the redemptive power of love is somewhat exaggerated in some versions of these stories.”

  Sara was unsure how to respond to that. The old lady laughed at her confusion and gestured at an aisle.

  “Please walk with me, if you wouldn’t mind, I have been neglecting the front desk. My only assistant is unwell, but I decided not to cancel storytime for the little ones. They seem to enjoy tales of magic laced with extreme violence.”

  Sara laughed.

  “Some things never change, I guess.”

  The old lady looked at her with piercing blue eyes before leading her back through the small maze of bookshelves.

  “Now, you’re an American and not a tourist,” she continued, “because they never come in here. And you are certainly not the glamorous former lingerie model Keri Pedon, whose charms have been described to me by Rudy, and others, in more than ample detail. Therefore, I deduce that you are Sara Hansen, part of the power couple attempting to rejuvenate old Pirate Cove.”

  “I guess everybody knows, right?” Sara remarked.

  “Yes, the island is very gossipy, but much of the gossip that reaches me comes from social media. You announced your decision to quit the United States for Sainte Isabel on Facebook, I believe? Or was it Instagram? I get them all mixed up.”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Sara. “Yes, it was Facebook.”

  They arrived at the desk where a couple of locals—both elderly ladies—were waiting to check out a stack of romances. After she had stamped the books, old-style, Miss Mountjoy offered Sara a seat and a cup of ginger tea. As she sat down, Sara realized she was tired, almost exhausted. Stress and lack of sleep were catching up with her.

  “I’ll take that tea,” she said. “Thanks. I came here to ask about a local legend, but now… it feels kind of dumb. I think maybe I’m wasting your time, Miss Mountjoy.”

  The librarian clicked on a small kettle concealed under her desk and dropped teabags into two mugs.

  “You must feel free to call me Theresa,” she said, “if I can call you Sara. And don’t feel dumb just because things are a little out of the ordinary. This is an odd little island. A haunted island, one might say.”

  ***

  Joe Hansen left the bar and stopped in the side street, inhaling fresh air and then coughing thanks to the fumes of a small motorbike that roared past. His conversation with the garrulous Billy had finally made things clear to him. He stepped into a doorway to get out of the bright Caribbean sun and took out
his phone. He was determined to find out if the old man had been accurate. Of course, he hoped so, but Joe had heard enough convincing gossip before to know that Billy could just be blowing smoke.

  It makes sense, he thought. First time I was here things were going fine. At least, that’s what I was led to believe. Then it all changed. Or were they lying to me the whole time and I was too green to know it? I need to be sure.

  Then he paused, pondering which of his contacts might be most useful in

  these circumstances. He ran through a quick mental list of genuine friends, people in business who might do him a favor. He settled on a couple and texted them, choosing his words carefully. As he finished sending the second message, he became aware of a diminutive figure watching him around the corner of the street. Joe just glimpsed a dark face and a hint of some red garment out of the corner of his eye. But when he looked up from his phone, the small watcher was gone.

  Joe shrugged, wondering why it suddenly seemed so chilly in the shady doorway. He had never felt that sensation in the tropics before. Certainly not around midday on Sainte Isabel. He stepped out into the sunlight again and felt reassured by the heat on his skin. He walked back to the boulevard, saw a couple of little kids playing outside a small store. Neither of them could have been the one peering at him. Neither was wearing red.

  Joe dismissed the trivial mystery.

  At least, he thought, kids around here play out in the street. That’s gotta be healthy.

  Chapter 5: Legends and Lies

  In the neat, air-conditioned library, Theresa Mountjoy was giving Sara a history lesson. Sara was a little impatient to hear about the island’s prevailing superstitions. But she still felt grateful to the old lady for sparing the time. And, it seemed, the librarian had an excellent memory for obscure historical facts.

  “Lemaitre was originally a typical French privateer of the late seventeenth century,” Theresa said, putting down her tea mug. “A privateer, in case you were wondering, is someone commissioned by the government to attack enemy shipping. A state at war would issue what were called ‘letters of marque’, essentially commissioning a privately-owned vessel into the navy, making it a legitimate raider of commerce.”

  The old lady smiled at Sara’s evident surprise.

  “You Americans used privateers against us Brits, quite a lot as it happens. Well, Lemaitre proved to be very good at it. But when the war ended, he did not want to return to peacetime France. He just kept going, attacking any merchant ship that took his fancy. The French declared him a pirate, and a protracted hunt for his ship began.”

  “I’m guessing it took a while to track him down?” put in Sara. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have this big reputation.”

  “Quite so, he was very elusive, a truly brilliant naval tactician,” Theresa nodded. “But like all pirates, he needed a base of operations to supply and refit his ship, rest his crew, and of course, unload his loot. Our little island was the perfect place. The inland inhabitants of Sainte Isabel were on his side—les boucaniers, literally bacon eaters.”

  Seeing Sara’s expression, the librarian laughed out loud. It was a surprisingly youthful sound. It made Sara wonder if an adventurous early life had ended with Miss Mountjoy landing on Sainte Isabel and taking up her quaint, sedate job among the books.

  “Yes, boucan is French for bacon,” the librarian went on, clearly relishing the chance to lecture. “Pigs were brought to the Caribbean from Europe and rapidly ran wild on all the islands. Castaways, refugees, escaped slaves and so on hunted pigs for food, and indulged in a little light piracy. They were famously good shots. Wild pigs don’t just walk onto the barbecue, after all. Hence, they became known as boucaniers, or buccaneers. But I digress a little…”

  Sara suppressed a chuckle. It was clear that her new acquaintance liked digressing a lot. But it was an endearing quality. And, anyway, Sara felt that a newcomer should learn Sainte Isabel’s history in detail.

  Theresa went on to describe how Lemaitre had become too successful for his own good. It became impossible for any of the European powers to ignore his depredations.

  “He was not only a successful pirate but a notoriously cruel one, it seems. Lemaitre became famous for slitting the throats of anyone who annoyed him and then dumping them overboard. And that was just his standard punishment. He did far, far worse things when he lost his temper. Castrating men who had seriously annoyed him in some way—that was a barbaric act Lemaitre made a point of doing himself. He let his emasculated victims bleed out on the quarterdeck of his ship. It is said the planks of his quarterdeck were black with the dried blood of his victims.”

  Sara thought about castration and imagined Joe crossing his legs at this point. She crossed hers in sympathy.

  “Okay, I get the picture. Lemaitre was no Boy Scout.”

  Miss Mountjoy shook her head in mild disapproval.

  “In such an extremely cruel and violent age, it took quite a lot of effort to become notorious,” the librarian pointed out. “Lemaitre managed it. Within a few months, he became so feared that the French, English, Dutch, and Spanish all sent out warships to search for him. Now, those naval vessels were powerful ships with big guns, well-trained crews, dauntless captains, and so forth. A solitary pirate had no chance against them. It was then,” she explained, “that Victor Lemaitre supposedly availed himself of supernatural help. A decision that still resonates on the island today. In people’s adornments, for instance. But there are exceptions, as you can see.”

  Sara sipped her tea and waited for the next part of the tale. Then she realized that the other woman had stopped and was holding up her hands. Miss Mountjoy was wearing a crisp, short-sleeved shirt. She had a small watch on her left wrist, nothing else. Then Sara grasped what she was being shown. Or rather, not shown.

  “You don’t wear a monkey charm,” Sara exclaimed, looking at Miss Mountjoy’s throat. “But you do wear a crucifix, I notice.”

  The older woman smiled slightly.

  “Not everyone feels the need for a charm. Some of the old money British types on the island—descendants of the sugar planters and traders—think it is beneath their dignity. They are undeniably being snobbish, but as for myself—I was raised in the Catholic faith, and that is enough of a shield for me. Or so I prefer to believe. Now, let me see if I can find—ah yes, here it is.”

  She reached under the desk and took out a cardboard shoebox. The box was battered, with a faded handwritten label.

  “It’s been many years since I looked at this,” Miss Mountjoy explained, “but I suspected that one of you would be stopping by.”

  She removed the lid of the box and took out a dog-eared book. It looked to Sara like an old diary. It was in even worse shape than the box, and she guessed it might be centuries old.

  “This is a secondhand account by a remarkable Frenchman called Exquemelin,” Miss Mountjoy said. “He was a ship’s surgeon who served with some of the leading pirates of the day—medical knowledge was much prized given the prevalence of scurvy, syphilis, and of course, all those combat wounds. A good physician was even more valuable than a brilliant navigator or master gunner.”

  She opened Exquemelin’s journal and showed Sara the tiny, faded handwriting. Paper had clearly been at a premium in the age of piracy, as each page was crammed with what seemed to be French words neatly written in what was now brown ink. Sara admitted that she had no real knowledge of the language.

  “It might be wise to learn a little French, if you are planning to make a home here,” Miss Mountjoy said, with a hint of reproof. “But this is seventeenth-century French, so few of us could be expected to read it. However, with the help of a few reference books, I did get through the key passages on Lemaitre.”

  Following the text with one finger, Miss Mountjoy began to read.

  “‘It is said by many that Victor Lemaitre went to a witch-woman in the hills of Sainte Isabel and sought the help of her master, the Devil. In return for pledging his immortal soul, the p
irate captain was granted a familiar spirit or demon that would do his bidding—a creature in the form of a monkey. It was also widely believed that his ship, a three-master called the Vengeur, was given special properties that made it almost impossible to detect at sea until it was close by its prey, and allowed it to vanish from sight in an unnatural mist when pursued by ships of war. Also, the guns of this Devil Ship fired shots that unerringly pierced the enemy from stem to stern, slew many men, and were even claimed to be red hot, as if prepared in the very furnaces of hell itself…’”

  The old lady paused. “Well, you get the picture.”

  Sara admitted to being puzzled.

  “That makes a great story, but the way you tell it, wouldn’t Lemaitre still be terrorizing the sea lanes? He seems to have become unstoppable—like a super-pirate.”

  “Ah, but you forget that the scales must balance,” Miss Mountjoy said, holding up a finger, as if Sara had been a child interrupting a story of chivalry. “Evil always has its comeuppance, usually at the very pinnacle of its apparent success. And, as you Americans say, the fate that befell Lemaitre is a doozy.”

  She put the book down and again began to talk from memory.

  “The year is 1694, the place Sainte Isabel…”

  ***

  The stench of Port Louis was almost unbearable. Father Bertrand found himself wishing for nightfall, for the relative cool of the evening. It would at least reduce the odor of raw sewage, rotting vegetables, animal manure, human effluent, and above all, long-dead fish.

  “A poor sort of domain for a scion of an ancient noble line,” said the governor, holding up a dirty handkerchief to his nose. “But it is my first official post. I must make good here; I must deal with the problem. Come!”