Uncharted Waters
Tides of Fortune V
Steven Becker
Copyright © 2019 by Steven Becker
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
Leaving behind a fortune is never easy, and sure to be regretted. Although if the only other option is to remain alive, the decision is easier. Standing on the top spar of the rigging—my favorite place aboard our seventy-foot brigantine—my knees bent to the swell as the following wind pushed us toward the setting sun. As we sailed toward the horizon, it was this very quandary that occupied me.
We had “obtained” our current ship after the Panther was destroyed by a saboteur, leaving us no choice but to enter into a dubious deal with my mentor, Gasparilla’s nemesis, Jean Lafitte. Just having been careened and refitted, the ship wasn’t a sleek race horse, but neither was she the lumbering, leaky cow we had “inherited.” Flying a full complement of sails under the watchful eye of Mason, our navigator, she moved easily through the seas. Our twenty cannon, purchased in Havana, provided our resident pirate Rhames with enough firepower to keep a grin on his face.
But it was Shayla who concerned me most. My love was fed up with our lifestyle. “Once a pirate, always a pirate” was the mantra of the Caribbean, including the U.S. Navy. Under President Jefferson, the fledgling service had grown into a respectable force, and with no wars to occupy it, the U.S. government had set its sights on obliterating piracy from the Caribbean.
The core of our crew—Rhames, Swift, Red, and myself—had started as pirates. My path was different than most. I had been abducted by José Gaspar, better known as Gasparilla, at an early age when he captured the ship our family had set sail to the Americas on. The old pirate had taken a liking to me, making me his cabin boy, and after several years I was adopted into his band. When the U.S. Navy lured his ship, the Floridablanca, out to sea and sunk her, Gasparilla rode the anchor chain to his death. I watched the entire affair from a nearby beach—along with a dozen men guarding ten chests of treasure.
Our small band of survivors had retreated into the dangerous and unknown interior of Florida, losing some treasure and men along the way, and gaining Lucy and Blue, while enroute to the Florida Keys. Our first true ship had been taken from pirates in the Snake River, where we found Mason, our navigator, chained in the hold. It had been my singular purpose since then to be anything but a pirate, which had turned out to be harder than it sounded.
Instead of plying the waters and robbing others, we had done quite nicely recovering gold, silver, and jewels from the deep. But being branded with the label of “pirate” meant we had no friendly ports to trade our newly found riches. That dilemma had forced our decision to head to the Pacific, where we hoped to start fresh.
It was our only path to legitimacy, and as we headed due west toward Mexico, I knew it was the right move. Our deal with Lafitte had cost us five-eighths of what we had recovered from the wreck of our own ship. This was the treasure that had just disappeared below the horizon, along with the three Spanish frigates that stood guard over it.
What Lafitte’s crew didn’t know was that we had part of Moses Henriques’s treasure hidden in our holds. The little-known Jewish pirate, who had taken down the 1628 Spanish Plate Fleet, and I shared a common heritage. Centuries removed, I never knew him, though I had been trusted by another Sephardi with at least one of Henriques’s secrets. Those riches now lay in our bilge, covered with a modest layer of stone.
With both funds and a seaworthy ship, we finally had what we needed to reach our goals. Our largest obstacle was the Caribbean, an innocuous-looking body of water that promised danger at every port and often in between.
Blue and Lucy, the transplanted African Pygmies we had found in central Florida, were adept fishermen, hunters, trackers, and healers. Because of their fishing skills we would never be hungry, and even now they were at the stern rail trolling feathers with bent metal hooks behind the ship. Every so often one of them would howl in delight as a tuna or dorado was hauled over the rail. The cook would pursue the flapping fish, ending its life with a slash of his dagger before gutting, filleting, and salting the catch.
It was a practiced and efficient operation that kept us in fish, but for a ship at sea, fresh water was always a concern, and not knowing what lay ahead, our limited supply was my top priority.
With regret, I left the rigging and climbed down the mast, and with legs acclimated to the swells, landed gently on deck. Moving back to the sheltered helm, I went to the binnacle, where Mason stood in his usual spot, studying an old chart and calling course corrections to the freedman at the wheel.
“Any regrets about leaving the treasure?” I asked, wanting to take measure of the crew.
“Only a fool would have tangled with three frigates. Even Rhames wanted no part of that fight.”
It was a rare situation when Mason and Rhames agreed, and in this case, Rhames had called the retreat. Usually one to fight a snake bare fisted, it was a first for him as far as I could recall. But the decision to run would haunt us until we spotted another sail or land—neither auspicious signs for us.
“Panama?” Mason asked.
The isthmus had been our stated destination. From there we would have to decide if we would cross by land, or make our way down the coast of the southern continent and around the Horn. That decision could wait for now.
“We’ve got plenty of fish.” We both laughed as Blue hauled another dorado over the rail. Larger than the schoolies, the cook pursued the electric blue fish as it slammed against the deck. Of all the species we had caught, the dorado fought equally as hard in the water as on deck.
“It’s fresh water I’m concerned about,” I said.
Mason waved his hand at the chart. “Not much choice for provisions.”
“There’re plenty of choices, just none that’ll welcome us.”
“The Pacific …” I started.
“I know, it’ll all be different on the other side.”
He was the skeptic aboard. Rhames, Red, and Swift, the remaining pirates, were the adventurers, not caring where we went. Shayla was pragmatic and knew our only chance was to find waters
where we weren’t known. The crew, now half of what it had once been, was rounded out by Haitian freedmen, rescued during our adventure there. We’d left one ship in Great Inagua after putting down a mutiny of sorts. I had offered three options to the contingent of freed slaves: stay ashore and work; take over our other ship, the Cayman, and try to make a living from the salt trade (of which Inagua had ample supply); or join my ship. Those who had signed on with me had blended into the crew and readily took to their training.
Studying the map, the first thing I noticed was the lack of navigational choices. Havana lay about a hundred miles due south. Landing on Cuba after being stalked by the Spanish frigates didn’t sound like a good idea. Toward the west, three hundred miles away, was the eastern coast of the Yucatan—waters plied by Lafitte. Circumnavigating Cuba to the east was safer, but I wasn’t sure we had enough fresh water for the six-hundred-mile crossing. Also, that route added a thousand miles to our journey to reach Panama. From our experience, with that much water between us and our goal, something bad was bound to happen.
“Friendly waters and a thousand miles, or make a run for Mexico and hope to slip past Lafitte and the Spanish?” Mason asked.
Rhames appeared. “They still want to hang us in Grand Cayman?”
“Not worth the risk there.” But I saw his logic. By skirting the western coast of Cuba, we could make landfall in the Caymans, provision, and cross to Central America.
“Them out-islands there ain’t big enough to hide a row boat.”
He was referring to Little Cayman and Cayman Brac, both small atolls out of sight of the larger island, where I suspected we were still wanted men. Salvaging the Wreck of the Ten Sail had gained us a load of silver, but we had incurred the animosity of the governor there. “Six-hundred miles around Cuba, but only three hundred from there to the mainland. There’s little chance of frigates in both them spits of land, and if there is …?” Mason said.
There was no need for Mason to finish his thought. Islands that small would have at most one frigate—a fight we could handle. If we were able to slip past Cuba, it might be our only fight before reaching Panama. Rhames was a gambling man, and if he liked the odds, I had to agree. Now, if I could sell it to Shayla, I might have a couple of days of peace.
Chapter 2
Without fail, whenever there was a stretch of peace aboard, an outside force would step in and remind us that we were still in the Caribbean. Leaving Amsterdam when I was twelve my family had sailed for a new life in America. I can still remember the excitement I felt standing on deck of the ship when we left port. It was an uneventful trip—until we reached the Caribbean. It seemed to always come back to that.
To a young boy, the thrill of the journey quickly faded as the vastness of the Atlantic spread out before us and the days started to blend together like the endless waves in front of the ship. Much to my parents’ displeasure, it was during those weeks of relentless boredom that I learned to climb the rigging—there was little else to do.
That all changed when we neared Key West. At that time, the United States had little in the way of a Navy, leaving the Gulf of Mexico to Gasparilla and Lafitte. Gasparilla and his crew, several of whom were now my men, had taken our ship. I was separated from my parents, and never learned their fate, though I could only imagine it was bad. I still think of them, but time has long healed those wounds.
When the notorious pirate found out I could read, write, and keep a ledger, he recruited me as his cabin boy. Under his protection, I grew up amongst his crew and because of my literacy earned their respect. Gasparilla, being a former Spanish naval officer, was trained to document everything. He was purposefully lax in keeping a journal, as it could be used against him, but there was a thick, bound ledger in which the men’s shares were entered. As the keeper of the great book of wealth, the mostly illiterate crew did their best to befriend me.
The route to New Orleans and the Mississippi River ran through our waters, and with the busy procession of unprotected merchant ships passing by we rarely left our corner of the Gulf. That changed with the growth of the Navy, forcing us into the Caribbean proper. Lacking the gold and silver mines of Mexico and South America, the spattering of islands cast on the aquamarine sea were used as pawns by the European powers, often changing flags as often as the winds shifted. Because of the unsettled political climate and the pirates roaming her waters, the Caribbean was anything but the tranquil body of water it appeared.
As is its manner, the Caribbean had lulled us to sleep, but the ship quickly came to full alert when the call from the lookout broke the quiet. Spotting a sail on the horizon was rarely a good sign, and as we approached the western tip of Cuba, we saw two. Word passed quickly and leaving no need to call the crew to their stations. With only two dozen aboard everyone knew their job. Rhames was in charge of the ship’s defenses, though I had the key to the arms locker hanging from a leather thong around my neck. It had been part of our deal after the incident in Hispaniola, where he had attempted to make off with the treasure. It was a mutiny of sorts, although more to enrich himself than to displace me. He’d actually had a chance to kill Shayla and I, but allowed us to pass. In that instant I had looked into his eyes, saw his soul, and knew we were brothers.
After chasing Rhames, Red, and Swift down and taking back the ship, I’d saved their lives when the freedmen had realized their treachery and turned on the mutineers. It had always been my belief that there was something in his pirate makeup that made Rhames try mutiny, almost as if he didn’t have a choice. He’d taken his best shot and after failing he seemed at peace with himself. We had an arrangement now, and holding the locker key myself was part of it.
Squinting into the setting sun, I could see the ships, but we were too far away to distinguish any detail. “I’m going to get a better look.” I grabbed the spyglass and started for the mast, finding Shayla right behind me.
She took the spyglass from my hand and started to climb. “My eyes are better than yours.”
This was no time for pride, and she was right. I followed her to the top spar, not failing to notice the sway of her hips as she climbed. Growing up among pirates, I had little experience with women before I met her. There was no doubt in either of our minds that we were made for each other, but our circumstances often placed friction on our relationship. She earned her keep as an accomplished diver and translator. Everyone aboard knew our holds wouldn’t be full of treasure without her, but being the captain’s woman was a constant source of irritation to her. We had planned to be wed on Cozumel, but as usual, something got in the way.
As I watched her scanning the waters with the glass, I promised myself to rectify that.
“They’re flying Spanish colors.”
I reached for the glass, more interested in the ships’ attitude—how laden they were, and the cut of their sails—than the flag they flew. Most ships plying these waters had a full locker, as did we. Nationality was a guessing game when you had no home, and as I looked at our stern, I saw the stars and stripes of the U.S. flag laying out in the breeze. Well away from the Tortugas or Key West, thinking that no colors were better than flying the upstart American flag, I called down to the deck to have it removed.
A long time had passed since we’d spent any time in a port, and I was unaware of the current state of affairs between the European powers. Flying the Spanish colors would invite a meeting; anything else was a crapshoot. What we really needed was to evade the ships until dark.
“Keep an eye, love.” I handed the glass back to Shayla.
“What are we going to do?”
“Run like hell until it gets dark, then sneak around the point.”
“Always sneaking.”
She said it without any attitude, but I knew what she meant. The sooner we could shed our pirate skin the better, and that would take a change in venue. The first step was to evade the ships now directly in our path. After the coast dropped behind our port side, Mason called for a turn to the south. It a
ppeared the ships had mirrored us and were attempting to force our course into the Golfo de Guanahacabibes, a body of water treacherous enough that there was a large “X” over it on our chart.
In order to avoid that fate, we needed to work further west, but that had its own problems, as we would soon be entering the water patrolled by Lafitte. By now the captain had probably gotten word of the fate of his escort ships and our escape, making us a prime target if we were spotted.
“There’s a shoal there,” Mason said, pointing to a speckled area on the chart labeled Banco de San Antonio. “We run the channel between the reef and the mainland, maybe even the odds a bit.” His thick finger traced the proposed course.
Rhames must have heard “odds” and was soon hovering over us. “We make the first move and pick our line, we can load all the guns to one side, and lay twice the firepower on the bastards.”
From the smile on his face, I expected he liked the odds. “How are we going to counterbalance the load?”
“Move the bloody treasure. I’ll get my crew on the guns.”
I hated the thought of uncovering the treasure that acted as ballast in our bilge, but there was little else to be done. Moving all our guns to one side would cause tons of displacement.
“We’ll do what we can,” Rhames said.
An hour later, the moon cursed us as it broke through the clouds, shining full and bright on the water. The details were lost, but the shape of the ships charging to intercept us was clear. Mason had set his course, choosing to run the western edge of the channel. This put us perilously close to the reef, but for our plan to work, we needed to force the pursuing ships to our port side.
With a noticeable list to port, we sailed toward the deadly shoal. Two men were on the starboard rail dropping leads and calling out soundings, but it mattered little. By the time their readings indicated we had encroached on the coral outcroppings, we would be among them, a position we had been in only too recently on the Abrojos. Running blind, we entered the channel and waited to see how the ships ahead would react.
Uncharted Waters Page 1