Dead Men Tell No Tales

by Jeffrey Kosh

  Dead Men Tell No Tales

  by

  Jeffrey Kosh

  First Edition

  Copyright 2012 Jeffrey Kosh

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B007PLST5U

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part or parts of this publication may be copied, recorded or otherwise reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  COVER ART by SUZI M

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  TABLE OF CONTENT

  TITLE

  DEDICATION

  QUOTE

  DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES

  Port Royal, Jamaica. 1708 AD

  25 Miles off the coast of Inagua. 1676AD

  Port Royal, Jamaica. 1708 AD

  BIOGRAPHY

  BACK COVER

  Dedicated to

  My wife Manuela, Kat Yares, Suzi M, Rebecca Besser, and Simona Rossetti.

  Thanks for your support

  With sloping masts and dipping prow,

  As who pursued with yell and blow

  Still treads the shadow of his foe,

  And forward bends his head,

  The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

  And southward aye we fled.

  Rime of the Ancient Mariner

  by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES

  Port Royal, Jamaica.

  1708 AD

  “Aye, me lad, ‘ave a seat next to me and listen th’ true story of th’ Banshee’s Cry,” the man said, addressing the young crewman approaching his table.

  “You know the Banshee’s Cry Legend, do you?” The boy replied with a hint of disbelief as he rested his back on the stool. In every tavern around the known world there were dozen of people claiming to know details of what had happened at Cayman Brac. All of them were just calling for attention, or to gain confidence on greenhorns like him. The boy was disappointed his soon-to-be captain was another of those braggarts.

  “Aye. I know th’ legend ‘cause I ‘ave seen it m’self. I was there when th’ Plague ended once fer all,” said the oldster, acknowledging the note of disbelief in the younger lad.

  They were all the same these young landlubbers coming on the account with star-crossed eyes, dreaming of adventure in this age of rebirth. Envisioning the growing war between the Northern Alliance and the League of the Antilles as a quick way to glory and wealth. They knew nothing how the New World came to be, of those who had sacrificed their own lives to build it, and mostly, ignored the Plague’s truth. They curled their nose at the smell of Port Royal alleys and docks, forgetting about the pleasant fragrance of the sea carried by westerly winds. They had not lived in a world perpetually immersed in rot and decay.

  “So, Master, go on. I’m curious. You say you were there,” mouthed the young mariner eyeing the small wooden chest resting under the man’s feet, “But where, exactly?”

  The captain gazed at him intently, and then gulped down a draft.

  “Mabouya’s Well,” he said, almost whispering, that simple word still sending a shock down his spine.

  “Mabouya’s Well? Never heard about it, Master. What’s this? A place in the Devil’s Sea, a cay? Or …” he hazarded, “a tavern?”

  The old mariner pierced the boy with steel-gray eyes.

  “Blimey! Ain’t believin’ me, ain’tcha? Fine, keep listenin’ to bilge scum th’ Roundheads pump every day into th’ Recovery Effort. Come tomorrow, Bucko, you’ll be pumping water yerself from th’ Revenge’s belly. Avast! Listen to me story and I promise ye’ll see with yer deadlights th’ proof of what me talking.”

  “With all due respect, Sir, I do not trust the Puritans, that’s why I left New Hampshire colony and joined the Southern Royalists! Before discovering the ruse behind false promises,” exclaimed the boy, his usual fine skin turning red by rekindled memories.

  “So shut up. Go to th’ bar and ‘ave this jug filled again. Then, I’ll tell ye a tale so grisly and scary ye ain’t goin’ to sleep fer months. And ye be wary, ‘cause the ghosts of those times still haunt us today, no matter what th’ Northerners say. The Marauders aren’t a bunch of crazies, and the Black Brig still plies these waters.”

  “The Black Brig, Master? A fairy tale?” The green crewman interrupted. That old scurvy dog was adding fables to legends. How come this man was still allowed to serve on a League ship?

  “Aye, ‘tis a legend. Yet, ‘tis also true. Cause that ship sailed under a different name once. Her name was Banshee’s Cry, and she was a fine ship. She was … my ship.”

  ****

  25 Miles off the coast of Inagua.

  1676 AD

  “Bring her about handsomely, now!” Captain Drake shouted to be heard above his boarding crew’s cries. Smoke engulfed the prow of the Banshee’s Cry, as the brig came closer to the wounded Spanish merchantman.

  “Avast! Moor that pregnant sow before she goes adrift,” echoed McTavish below, snapping curses in Gaelic. Drake looked at his quartermaster amused. McTavish had been with him since the beginning. An almost gnomish creature, with ash colored hair crowing a childlike face, Mac - as everybody called him - had a direct and honest personality and everyone respected him for this. He was now manning the planks with Luther, the large gun master.

  The Spaniard merchantman - the Santa Esmeralda - was a large three-masted trade vessel. Although well armed, the ship had easily fallen prey to the smaller and maneuverable brig. Its crew had surrendered after a short, yet intensive defense, and was now crowding the main deck. Their Captain, Marcelo Salazar, was among them, trying to keep a noble countenance, but clearly shivering into his foppish leggings.

  Drake swung from a rope directly between the two vessels, and landed his boots on the deck, causing the already jumpy Spaniard officer to let loose a soft cry.

  Handsome, in a wild fashion, Daniel ‘Drake’ Davies had clearly seen better days. His curly black hair, steel-gray eyes, and olive-tanned skin, revealed his Spanish blood; features he had inherited from his Andalusian mother. The tall cheekbones framing his face came from his English father. An unkempt and wiry beard covered most of his chin and the jaw-sides.

  “Ahoy, mateys! Follow rules and nobody will be hurt. We’re not here to kill the crew of this floating barrel; we just want your gold. So, please, line up and collaborate with me lads. Do not, and as sure as me name’s Drake, I’ll have you pay a visit down to Davey Jones’ Locker. And I mean the bottom of the sea,” he addressed the captured mariners, then to underline it, raised his hand and released a shot from the pistol. The sailors seemed to understand, because they immediately formed a line and extended hands forward. Meanwhile, the rest of the boarding party was busy getting down to the hold, eager to put their craving hands on the precious cargo.

  The sun was coloring the horizon in orange strokes when Geist the albino, manning the Banshee crow’s nest, issued an unexpected shout, “Sail Ho!”


  Drake bolted to the rails, his eyes squinting at the sea, yet seeing nothing. Mac put immediately the glass at his eye, scanning the distance. “Shiver me timbers,” he muttered, handing the tool to Drake. “Risen!”

  Drake looked through the spyglass and what saw chilled his blood. Huge holes gaped in the approaching Slaver and rotten boards jutted randomly from the sides. The foremast’s top was broken off and lay on the warped deck, amid dangling and trailing bits of ropes. Yet, what scared him most was not the sailing derelict itself, but the crew manning it. Dressed in filthy rags, they were horrible to behold; rotting away, yet, somehow still holding whole, with strands of algae entangled in their hair or hanging from their gnashing mouths, bony and thin limbed they were belying their powerful nature. Rubbery, dead-cold flesh, crisscrossed by innumerable wounds, hung loose from visible bones. Some were missing an arm or leg, but many had replaced them with other instruments. There he could spot a blade jutting out from the stump of a burned forearm. Another had three sickles protruding as wicked claws.

  “All aboard!” Drake shouted, “Leave ship now! Whoever lingers shall be left here, hurry up!” He was meaning it. As cruel as it could sound there was no other way. You couldn’t kill the living dead, because they were dead already. Yes, you could delay them by chopping off their limbs and brains, but it was impermanent. Soon, every single body part took a life of its own; even spilled innards. Drake had witnessed a strand of entrails strangling a man before his eyes.

  More, they carried the Plague.

  It had all started ten years before, in now fallen England. Survivors said the Plague was brought into Southampton by the Sea Venture, a Navy frigate captained by Robert H. Hackett. Nobody knew where the crew had caught that unholy disease, besides none cared; they were too busy evacuating the Old World when had realized it was not possible to contain it. At first, the Risen crew had shambled out the docked vessel, causing horror among the inhabitants. They were dealt with by the city militia, at least it seemed so. The fiend bodies had been piled and set to flame, cremating their cursed flesh to cinders. Soon, the dead from cemeteries, and lonely graves began to rise, and people showed symptoms of the Plague. By Christmastime it had reached London. Not even the Great Fire had stopped it. In less than five months the Plague had spread to mainland Europe, killing off thousand of people and reanimating as much to this evil mockery of life. Some said it was not a disease, but God’s wrath, unleashed on mankind for his sins. Christians had flocked to churches, locking inside, endlessly praying the Lord to save their souls in upcoming Apocalypse. Others blamed the foreign, or the women, or cats, or rats, or whatever came to their blurred minds.

  And everything Drake knew was lost.

  Somehow, the Plague had fall not on the New World, nobody knew why, still they didn’t care. The exodus from the Old world had been a messy affair, in which anarchy had reigned more than civil manners. Bribes and weapons had insured survival to a higher degree than royalty and clerical influence. The New Word had become a place for the merchant, not for the noble.

  Six months ago the first Risen vessel had been spotted near Hispaniola. There had been questionable attacks on small settlements and tiny colonies previously, yet the League had blamed rogues and royalists. However, these bloodthirsty attacks had left no survivors, and had carried away none of the booty from their nightly raids.

  Except people.

  Raided villages appeared desolate and silent to those unfortunate who had berthed their ship in these dead places.

  And the smell of decay had settled in, forever lingering as an evil taint.

  Now, the Risen were approaching quickly, driven by unnatural winds. God only knew how it was possible for that wreck to float, let alone to veer and sail. Yet, it changed tack with swiftness, as a monstrous shark giving chase to tasty morsel.

  “Leave ship now!” Mac outcried, desperately trying to have his mates abandon the boarded freighter. Drake was already at the tiller, frantically shouting orders to the crew, his gaze frozen on the incoming monstrosity.

  “In the name of God, do not leave us here!” exclaimed Captain Salazar running to the planks and grabbing Luther’s arm. The hulking German didn’t flinch; he got loose of the hold and punched the Spaniard so hard he fell overboard. At that sight, chaos ensued and more than ninety men hurried toward the smaller brig, recklessly pushing everyone on their path, fighting to reach the intact vessel’s safety.

  “Come off it,” Drake ordered, eyeing the tattered sails, “Make speed. Bring her about!”

  The Banshee’s Cry maneuvered away from the Santa Esmeralda, causing most of the boarding mariners to plunge down in the frothing waters, while others clung to the keel, yet were easily dealt with by the privateers.

  “God forgive us,” muttered Mac, taking hold of the helm. Drake nodded, but he knew there was no other choice. The brig had place for seventy men and twenty passengers, there was no space for all that people. He allowed himself a last view of the doomed freighter, before taking his decision.

  “Make for the Caicos.”

  Mac nodded and shouted, “Ready about!” and all the hands hurried to their duties.

  ****

  Later, they were taking advantage of strong wind to gain distance from the ship of the dead.

  Geist was scanning stern-side, figuring to spot the tattered canvases at any moment. But the dead were not giving chase, and he knew why; they were busy capturing the stranded Spaniard crew. Tall tales said the Risen ate the living.

  He knew better.

  The fiends had no need for eating or drinking. Nope. They liked their victims alive; to abuse and torture ‘em for days, feeding from pain. They only wished for spreading the Plague, until only Death would reign.

  In the morning they tacked southward, entering the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Hispaniola. The sea was rough and winds came and go, yet the Banshee performed well, and by the next dawn they spotted Tortuga on the port-side. They continued on, never stopping to founder ship in a safe harbor, too fearful of being ambushed by the undead.

  Five days later they arrived in Port Royal, with a sundered mood, and an empty hold.

  As the Banshee made her way to the docks, Drake knew that within moments there would be gunshots and celebrating yells from the population, as the arrival of a privateering ship always signaled prosperity and trade.

  Yet there was none came for them.

  Just a large group of armed men from the League Militia. Once they docked, four burly men came aboard and ordered Drake to follow to the Customs House. He did not protest, nodded toward McTavish, and did as told.

  Admiral Red Leg was waiting him.

  “Drake! You old scoundrel, I was eager for your return,” exclaimed Red Leg at the sight of the young captain entering his office, “That’s good news to me.”

  Morgan ‘Red Leg’ O’Neill was nicknamed the Admiral because he was one of the most influential men in Port Royal. He was the only survivor of Captain Henry Morgan’s failed assault to Puerto Principe in Cuba. Henry Morgan was destined to become the greatest member of the Brethren of the Coast had not he be slain in that perfectly planned attack turned into a trap. Red Leg had been hailed as a hero when had showed up in Port Royal claiming the Dons were ready to attack Jamaica. Thanks to this information the raid was successfully repealed and he was commissioned by Governor Thomas Modyford as Captain of the Colonial Militia. After the Chaos Years, in which all support was lost from the homeland, Jamaica had fell into turmoil and civil war, as different groups battled for supremacy in that tiny colony. At last, the League of the Antilles had won by might of arms, supported by merchant’s gold and piratical interests. Modyford’s royalists were hung at every lamppost, and he himself was lynched by the hungry mobs.

  They had behaved not different from the Risen.

  “Look, Morgan, there’s been a problem with the straggler …” Drake started apologizing, but was immediately shushed by Red Leg.

  “Shh! I don’t care you retur
ned so early and without a prize on the trail. It’s fairly evident that you botched it. Anyway, me dear friend, I’ve got something higher into my mind, than gold.”

  Drake stared at him, then at the two heavily armed, evil-looking men standing guard. Red Leg’s office was large, and exquisitely fitted with a sturdy, but finely carved table covered by charts. Behind the table stood a plush chair, on which Morgan sat clutching a glass filled with red wine. A rarity these days; clearly a show of his influence. Not even the King of Nouvelle France in North America could afford a single sip.

  Drake gazed into Morgan’s glowering icy-blue eyes, which were set in an oval face with a strong nose and a snow-white long mane.

  What was he talking about?

  Red Leg rose from his seat and with a long stride came closer to the younger captain, “I want to introduce you to a special flower borne out these cursed islands. Follow me,” then signaled his enforcers to stand guard while he led Drake to a side door.

  The pair entered a lavishly furnished bedroom, partly illuminated by bright candles, in which a comfortable bed, covered by a brocade bedspread lined in silver, dominated it as a dragon warding its hoard. In a darkened corner a shadowy figure rose and came into view.

  Drake’s heart stopped for an instant at the sight of that lovely figure; she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Perfect features, highlighted by lovely tall cheeks, were encased into a chocolate-brown face, as smooth and healthy as to seem unreal. Her figure was wavy and dainty, clearly shown by her lace vest in which a full bosom caught the eye of the onlooker.

  “Kaya, this is Captain Drake,” said Red Leg breaking the spell.