Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales Novelization

by Elizabeth Rudnick

  And Henry’s heart lurched.

  Right outside the ship, looming like a large gate in the middle of the sea, was a huge rock formation. Black stone formed a large arch that rose so high in the sky that it blocked out the sun. As Henry watched, the small pirate ship changed course and headed straight toward the arch, clearly hoping to find safety on the other side.

  But Henry knew no salvation existed there. All that existed beyond that arch was destruction. Destruction and death. Or worse. And he also knew the Monarch was bound to follow the pirate ship right toward it.

  Henry didn’t hesitate. He bolted for the stairs. He needed to get above decks.

  Unfortunately, Petty Officer Maddox thought differently. “I’ve warned you of leaving your post,” he said, stepping in front of Henry. “Shall I show you the lash?”

  “Sir,” Henry said, trying to push past the angry officer, “I have to speak to the captain.”

  “What did you say?” Maddox asked in disbelief. His face turned a deep shade of red, and as if he were a wild animal looking at prey, spittle collected at the corners of his mouth.

  Henry didn’t even bother to answer. Maddox couldn’t help him. The only person who had any chance of helping him—and the entire crew—was the captain. And the longer Henry stood there, the slimmer the chance of survival became. Pushing the officer aside, uncaring of the consequences, Henry raced up the stairs.

  He heard Maddox bellow his name behind him, but even the officer’s shouting was drowned out by the sound of guns firing as soon as he arrived on deck. Unaware of the impending danger, the large naval warship was firing all its weapons at the pirate ship in the hopes of sinking it.

  Captain Toms stood at his post, barking his orders with cold and practiced precision. Spotting him, Henry ran over. He bobbed and weaved through lines of soldiers until he arrived right below the wheel.

  “She strikes her flag in surrender, sir,” Henry heard the officer standing next to Captain Toms say.

  Captain Toms gave a curt nod, obviously pleased with the report. “Chase her down. The British navy does not grant surrender to pirates.” As the captain issued his orders, Henry saw him eye the rocks, concern flashing for a brief moment across his face. Henry felt a flicker of hope. But then, as quickly as the concern had appeared, it vanished. “Follow her in,” the captain commanded.

  “No! Don’t do it!” The words were out of Henry’s mouth before he could stop himself. They echoed across the deck. Instantly, the guns stopped firing and all eyes turned toward the wheel—and the captain.

  In the beat of stunned silence that followed, Henry gulped nervously. Addressing the captain out of turn was a punishable offense. He hadn’t thought that part through. Then again, punishment wouldn’t matter if they were all dead. Taking his chances, Henry forged on, ignoring the cold, angry stare of Officer Cole, one of the captain’s most trusted men. Once again, he addressed Captain Toms. “Look at your charts,” he said, pointing toward a wall on which a collection of charts had been tacked up. “We’re between three distant points of land with perfect symmetry to the center.” He paused, hoping the captain would catch on. “It’s a triangle…” he added.

  “Stand down!” Officer Cole shouted as Henry took a step closer.

  Henry stepped back. But he did not stop. “Captain, I believe you’re sailing us into the Devil’s Triangle.”

  Cole’s fists unclenched—a little. The captain stopped scowling. For a moment, Henry thought he had succeeded in getting through to them.

  And then the captain began to laugh. It began as a small chuckle but quickly grew into a guffaw. “You hear this, men?” he said, turning to his crew when he finally caught his breath. “This landsman believes an old sailor’s myth!”

  Henry shook his head. A landsman he might be, but he knew what he was talking about. He had spent his life studying the myths of the sea. He had read epic tales of mermaids in Latin. He could recite the stories of men thought to be lost at sea only to return from the depths. He knew all about the mythical elements of the sea—including his own father. He most definitely knew about the various spots in the sea said to be cursed. “And I know that ships which sail into the Triangle do not sail out,” he said finally.

  Just then, Maddox ran up. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “This one is clearly disturbed! A boy who keeps lemons in his pockets!” Maddox reached into Henry’s pockets and pulled out several lemons. The crew began to laugh.

  Henry shrugged. “Lemons ward off scurvy,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “And what makes you think that?” Officer Cole asked snidely.

  “I have no scurvy,” Henry retorted. Then he looked around at the rest of the crew with a raised eyebrow. “But all of you do.” That time, nobody laughed. His point made, Henry went on. “Captain, trust in what I say. Change your course.”

  It was the captain’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You dare to give me orders?” he asked.

  “I won’t let you kill us all!” Henry shouted desperately. The captain remained unmoved. Frustration welled up inside Henry. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t trying to be insubordinate. He was trying to save everyone from certain death. The captain and his crew were the crazy ones for not listening to him. Every minute that passed brought them closer to the rocks, to the Triangle, to death. Before anyone could stop him, Henry leapt into action. He ran toward the wheel.

  Just as quickly, the soldiers went after him. But Henry fought them off. He threw punches. He kicked. He ducked under one arm and jumped out of the way of another. Reaching the wheel, he grabbed it in his hands as he heard the unmistakable sound of a dozen guns being cocked. He closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the inevitable.

  “Hold fire!”

  Henry’s eyes popped open. To his surprise, the captain had saved him. But as he watched, the older man approached him. Reaching out, the captain ripped first one sleeve and then the other off Henry’s coat. “This is treason,” the captain said. “Take him below.”

  As two soldiers grabbed Henry, he dropped his head in defeat. What did it matter now? If he was right about where they were heading, treason was the least of his worries.

  As Henry was taken belowdecks and thrown into a cell, the Monarch resumed its course. Captain Toms stood at the wheel as they sailed through the large rock arch to the other side. To his surprise, the pirate ship they had been chasing was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where did she go?” the captain asked.

  As if in answer, the wind suddenly died. The sails fell limp and the sea grew eerily calm. An ominous silence fell over the boat. The sun seemed to fade, casting the Monarch into dark shadow.

  “Sir!” Officer Cole’s frightened voice broke through the silence. “There’s something in the water!”

  The captain slowly turned his head and looked over the rail. Sure enough, in the murky water below, he could just make out something floating. As the object moved closer, he saw what it was—the pirate ship’s Jolly Roger. A shiver of fear went down his spine. And then that shiver grew to a quake as he saw a different ship appear out of the darkness.

  That ship appeared to be more of a shipwreck than a functioning vessel. Its sides were torn apart, the hull open with the inside exposed, like a gutted fish. The figurehead that stuck out of the bow was so rotted and decrepit it barely resembled the woman it had originally been. As it sailed toward the Monarch, it faded into and out of sight, obscured by the darkness.

  “Fire!”

  Captain Toms’s voice bounced off the rocks and echoed over the silent sea. Instantly, the air filled with the sound of cannon fire and gunfire as dozens of weapons targeted the approaching ship. But the ship kept approaching them, seemingly untouched.

  And then the ship disappeared into the smoke.

  “Fire again!” the first officer ordered.

  The men didn’t move as they looked at the empty spot where the ship had been only a moment before. “Sir,” Maddox said nervously, �
�there is nothing out there.”

  And then, from the other end of the ship, came the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

  The Monarch had been boarded.

  Inside his cell, Henry heard the screams begin. There was an old pirate in the cell next to his who jumped at the sounds. Henry backed up until he hit the far wall and then slid down. Looking through the bars toward the stairs, he could just make out the shadows reflecting what was happening above. Henry felt a pang of fear. For while he was trapped in the ship’s brig, nightmares were coming to life up on deck.

  First came the sound of footsteps. Soldiers pushed themselves back against walls and each other, looking for a chance to defend themselves. But there was no way to do so against this particular enemy. This enemy, the crew of the Monarch found out swiftly, was nigh undefeatable. And while Captain Toms fancied himself a man of reason and logic, what he witnessed defied both.

  Because it seemed they were under attack by ghosts.

  As Captain Toms watched, a pair of cracked gray hands materialized through the walls of his ship and grabbed a soldier by the arms. The man let out a high-pitched scream that was cut off abruptly as his life was ended by a swift turn of a sword. More hands followed. They came from everywhere—above, below, each side. Men were lifted off their feet like rag dolls and thrown across the deck. Others were pulled violently down, their bodies slamming against the wood. Guns and swords fell as the soldiers struggled to escape their attackers.

  Through the chaos, Captain Toms saw one of his men drop the lantern he was holding into a pile of folded sails. They went up in flames, the light of the fire revealing flashes of black shapes floating about the decks. Within moments, smoke filled the air, obscuring everything.

  And then Captain Toms spotted a man moving toward him. He cut an imposing figure as he walked, untouched, through the flames, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers in his heavy boots without hesitation or concern. As the man—if that was what he was—got closer, Toms saw that he carried a huge sword in one hand. At least five feet in length, the long sword caught the light of the flames and illuminated the man’s clothing so that it appeared to glow red. Toms had just enough time to register the torn and faded Spanish Navy uniform before he found himself being grabbed by the collar and lifted off his feet. He stared into the face of the man holding him. Fear washed over him.

  “What are you?” Captain Toms managed to say.

  It was a valid question, for this was no ordinary man who held him. The face only inches from his own belonged in a horror story. Its pallor was disrupted with deep black cracks. The man’s long dark hair seemed to float around him, exposing a large gaping hole on one side of his head. His ebon eyes, which bore into Captain Toms’s, were lifeless.

  “Death,” the ghost replied.

  Before Toms could ask any more questions, Captain Armando Salazar, the cursed Spanish captain who haunted the Devil’s Triangle, ran him though with his long sword. Toms’s lifeless body fell to the deck. All the members of the British navy—the ones on the top deck, at least—had been killed.

  Turning, Captain Salazar looked at his men. They had taken a more corporeal form and now stood in front of their captain. Horrifying faces looked back at him expectantly. Each one of them was more terrifying than the last. All of them looked as though they had been blown up and crudely pieced back together again, as though they had just escaped the depths of hell. Grisly wounds covered their bodies. Some didn’t have all their limbs. When Salazar ordered them to stand at attention, the army of ghosts lined up and removed their hats, revealing still more lesions. As they stood there, they appeared to be solid in form, but there was something undeniably dead about them—a cold, grim aura. This was a cursed crew led by a cursed and monstrous man.

  “Straighten that line!” Captain Salazar ordered, walking down the row of men and inspecting them. It was a thankless task. No matter what the ghostly soldiers did to try to “clean” themselves up to meet their captain’s high standards, they always looked a mess—their uniforms as rotten and fragmented as they were. It drove Salazar mad. His life had been about order and justice. And now he was trapped aboard a ship where order was elusive. Justice, on the other hand, was something he could have….

  Adjusting the collar of a soldier missing half his throat, Salazar addressed his crew. “By rule of the king we have provided a fair and just punishment. This ship dared to cross our bow—and so she will rest at the bottom of the sea.”

  He glanced at the rocky entrance to the Triangle. A flash of desperation crossed his pale face. They had been trapped in their floating prison, caught between life and death, for years, waiting for an escape that did not come. But Salazar would not give up hope. “I assure you,” he went on, “your loyalty will be rewarded with blood. We will not rest until we have our revenge!”

  As his crew gave hollow shouts, Salazar proceeded to inspect the ship for any more survivors. To his pleasure, he found none above decks. His men had done quite a thorough job. Blood pooled beneath dozens of slain soldiers. Peering over the railing, Salazar saw a few more bodies floating lifelessly in the cold waves. Silence had fallen over the boat save for the ghost crew’s footfalls on the wooden floorboards, now covered in blood.

  And then Salazar heard a scream.

  The captain’s head whipped around. The scream had come from below. With measured strides, he made his way through the bodies and down the wooden stairs that led to the Monarch’s cells. His crew followed, though most took a less conventional route. Some allowed their noncorporeal bodies to slip straight down through the wooden slats, while others floated over the water and entered the cells from the ship’s hull. Another scream pierced the air.

  Salazar made his way toward the screaming, then stopped in front of two cells. In one, an older pirate stood, mouth open in abject terror, as the ghostly crew materialized around him. Salazar ran him through with his long sword, silencing him forever. Then he turned and looked in the other cell.

  Henry Turner stared back at him.

  Stepping straight through the iron bars that separated Salazar from Turner, the Spanish captain stalked over to the young man. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable scream that usually followed his appearance. None came. Instead, Henry looked at him with an odd calm, as though he had been expecting him.

  In a way, Henry had been expecting Salazar. Perhaps not him exactly, but something of his like, something too terrible for words. Listening to the chaos above, he had gone over in his head the various stories he had read about the Triangle—stories about something called El Matador del Mar, the Butcher of the Sea. And he had come to the conclusion that whatever was attacking the crew of the Monarch was not of this world.

  He had been right.

  That was why he could stand in front of Salazar and not scream. He could not help himself, however, from backing up a step as Salazar moved closer. And when the large man lifted his long sword, Henry did flinch. But to his surprise, the captain did not instantly run him through, as he had the man in the cell next to him. Instead, Salazar stabbed the long sword straight down. The tip pierced a piece of paper lying on the ground.

  As Salazar lifted it, Henry saw that it was the old WANTED poster of Captain Jack Sparrow. It had fallen from Henry’s pocket. Salazar saw the flash of recognition in the boy’s eyes, and his nostrils flared.

  “You know this pirate?” he asked, anger in his voice.

  “Only in name,” Henry replied.

  Salazar narrowed his eyes. “You’re looking for him?”

  “Yes,” Henry answered.

  Raising the poster, Salazar brandished it in front of his men. “This is our lucky day, because the key to our escape is Jack Sparrow!” he cried. “And the compass which he holds.” He paused to let his words sink in. Then he turned his attention once more to Henry. The young man shrank back. “No need to fear me, boy,” Salazar said, his tone icy. “I always leave one man alive to tell the tale. Now go find a Sparrow for me—
and relay a message from Captain Salazar. Tell him I will behold the daylight again. And on that day, death will come straight for him!”

  His dead crew cheered.

  “I’d tell him myself,” Salazar finished, bringing his face mere inches from Henry’s, “but dead men tell no tales!”

  With a cruel laugh, Salazar knocked the boy in the head with the hilt of his sword, and darkness swam in front of Henry’s eyes.

  It was yet another beautiful day on the Caribbean island of Saint Martin. Men in light suits and women carrying parasols to protect themselves from the sun strolled the cobblestoned main street, stopping every now and then to peer in windows of various pastel-colored shops. The air was full of the scents of sugar and spices. The sky above was a crystalline blue, and in the harbor, boats floated on gentle waves, their white sails bright against the turquoise waters. And, as was typical for a port island, there was a pleasant hum of activity.

  “Stop that witch!”

  The loud cry surprised several young couples walking. Turning, they moved out of the way just in time to avoid being run down by a woman wearing a torn dress. From her wrist dangled a metal chain. Behind her, giving chase and closing in fast, were two British soldiers.

  Carina Smyth heard the word witch and her steps faltered. She hated that word. She hated that she was the one being called that word. She hated that because of that word, she was being chased through the town of Saint Martin like a common criminal. It irked her beyond belief. A part of her wanted to stop, turn around, and give the two ignorant soldiers a piece of her mind.

  Instead, she kept running.

  Catching sight of a large crowd gathered in the town square, Carina rushed toward them, hoping to get lost among the spectators. Muttering apologies as she pushed her way through the men and women, Carina kept glancing back to see if the soldiers were still in pursuit. To her dismay, they were. But they were losing ground. A triumphant smile began to spread across her pretty face. She was going to make it!