by Ted Bell
HAWKE
A NOVEL
Ted Bell
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Theodore Bell
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-7434-6669-1
First Atria Books hardcover printing June 2003
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Interior design by Davina Mock
Printed in the U.S.A.
For my wife, Page Lee
Who let me steal so many precious hours, and filled
the rest giving me hope and inspiration
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank Sandra Blanton; the late Dr. William S. Gray; Tina Fanjul and her father, Gustavo de los Reyes; Benji Griswold; Mario Mendoza; Mary Anne Page; Jim Patterson; Larry Robins; and Robbie Taylor for their generous aid and encouragement during the writing of this book.
Especially, I am grateful to Peter Lampack for being relentless and to Emily Bestler for being Emily Bestler.
HAWKE
Prologue
The boy, barely seven years old, was dreaming what was to be the last completely happy dream of his life.
He was sound asleep in the top bunk of his tiny berth as images of his dog, Scoundrel, bounded across his mind. They had taken a small picnic down to the edge of the sea, just below the big house where his grandfather lived. Scoundrel was plunging again and again into the waves, retrieving the red rubber ball. But now some terrible black storm appeared to be howling in from the sea, and there was a voice calling him to come home quickly.
And then someone was grabbing his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Alex! Alex! Alex!
Yes, someone was shaking him, telling him to wake up, wake up now, even though he knew it was still nighttime, could hear the waves lapping against the hull of the sailboat, could see the blue moonlight streaming through the porthole onto his bedcovers, could hear the faint whistle of wind in the rigging of the tall mast that towered above the decks.
“Wake up, Alex, wake up!” said the voice.
He rolled over and opened his sleepy eyes. In the dim light of the tiny cabin he could see his father standing at his bedside, wearing an old gray T-shirt that said “Royal Navy.” His father’s jet-black parrot, Sniper, was perched on his shoulder. The bird was unusually quiet.
His dad had a terrible look on his face, almost scared, the boy thought, which was silly because his father wasn’t afraid of anything. He was the best, bravest man of all.
“Time to rise and shine?” the boy asked.
“Yes, it is, I’m afraid, little fellow,” his father said in a hurried, gentle whisper. “You have to get up quickly now and come with Daddy. Here, I’ll help you down.”
His father reached up with one hand to pull back his covers and help him onto the little ladder leading down from his berth. At the last moment, the boy clutched the blanket he’d had almost since birth and gripped it to his chest as he descended the ladder. Then his father picked him up in one arm and carried him out of the cabin and into the dark companionway. They turned left, and ran through the darkness toward the front of the boat, the bow it was called, his father still whispering in his ear as they ran.
“It’s going to be all right, we just have to hide you for a while and you have to be very, very quiet. Not a single noise till Daddy comes to get you, understand? Not a peep, okay?”
“Yes, Father,” the boy said, although he could feel himself growing scared now. They’d reached the end of the long corridor and his father put him down. “What’s wrong?” the boy asked.
“I don’t know, but I’m going up on deck to find out,” his father said, taking him by the hand. The boy, still trying to rub the sleep from his eyes with the corner of his blanket, followed his father into the small compartment all the way in the bow.
This bow compartment was too small to be of much use for anything really. So it was just piled high with coiled ropes and boxes of canned food and other supplies. There was a wooden box filled with dark bottles of “hootch,” which is what his father called the stuff he drank up on deck every night before dinner. Behind all the boxes, on the forward wall, was a door. Alex had once stacked boxes under the door and tried to pry it open, thinking it would make an excellent hiding spot. He didn’t know what was in there, but the door was always locked.
His father used a key now to open the little door.
“This is where we keep the extra anchor and mooring lines, Alex,” his father whispered. “And a few things we don’t want stolen, like Mummy’s good silverware from home. But there are other things in here, things I don’t want anyone to ever find. I’ll show you one right now.”
The locker itself was a very small V-shaped space, too small to be even called a room. From it came a smell of oily, muddy chain and ropes. The big anchor was in use, of course, holding them to the sandy bottom of a little cove.
They were in the Exumas, a chain of islands stretching south of the Bahamas, and had been mooring in a different cove every afternoon. This one was the prettiest of all. His father had shown it to him on the chart. The anchorage he was searching for was called the Luna Sea, which his dad had thought quite a clever name.
Alex pointed out that the island itself had a funny shape. “It looks like the mean old wolf,” he’d said. “The one that ate up the three little piggies.”
“Well, then, we’ll call it Big Bad Wolf Island,” his father had said.
It was a small bay of deep blue water, rimmed by a crescent of white sand. At one end of the beach was a stand of palm trees, bending and rustling in the wind. There were brilliantly colored fish swimming all around the boat. Alex, standing on the bow, dove into the water as soon as they’d anchored. His father had been teaching him the names of all the fish. He was looking for his newest favorite, the black and yellow striped ones called Sergeant-Majors.
He and his father had had a splendid evening of it until it got dark, diving off the bow, then swimming around to the ladder hanging from the stern. Mother had been waiting on deck at sunset with a big fluffy towel and, hugging him while drying him off, she’d asked him to name all the fish he’d seen.
So many beautifully colored fish in the clear water, he’d told her, it was hard to remember all their names. Triggerfish. Clownfish. Angelfish. That was the one. Did they come down from heaven? he wondered. But you could reach out and touch the Angels and they would nibble your fingers. Ticklish bites. It seemed long ago.
The boy bent forward and peered into the anchor locker, so dark in the nighttime.
“I’m not scared, Dad,” the boy said in a small voice. “Maybe I look scared, but it’s only because I’m a little sleepy.” He was looking up at his father with a serious expression on his face.
“Is everything okay? Is Mother okay?” he asked.
“She’s fine, fine,” his father whispered. “She’s hiding as well, you see, back in the stern. And keeping just as quiet as a church mouse, too. Isn’t that fun?”
“I guess so, Daddy.”
“Yes. Do you have a pocket on your pajama top? Yes, you do, d
on’t you? Splendid!”
His father reached up inside the locker and ran his hands along its ceiling, feeling for something. Then he had it and turned to his son.
“I want you to put this into your pocket and save it for Daddy, all right?”
His father handed him a small blue envelope with something folded up inside.
“What is it?” Alex asked.
“Why, it’s an ancient pirate treasure map, of course! So, take good care of it. Now, I want you to climb inside this little room and then I’m going to close the door and then you’ll lock it, like a game. When I come back, I’ll knock three times and that will mean it’s time for you to come out. Hurry now, upsy-daisy, in you go.”
“Yes, Father, it’s going to be fun, isn’t it?”
“Right you are. Here’s the key. I’m going to stick it into the lock on your side of the door. I want you to lock the door from the inside. And, don’t open it for anybody but Daddy, all right? Now, three knocks, remember?”
The boy crawled up inside and pulled his tattered blanket in after him, tugging it up around his chin. The chains were rough and hurt his skin through his thin pajamas. They were his favorite ones, covered with cowboys and Indians and six-shooters. He wore them every night of his life, never allowing anybody to even wash them. They would certainly get dirty now. It was hot in this place and it didn’t smell very good either.
They’d been sailing for almost two weeks now, and the child had explored every inch of the vessel, learning the names of everything. His father’s new boat, a beautiful yawl he’d christened Seahawke, was on her maiden voyage to the Bahamas and Exumas. She was almost as large as his grandfather’s ancient schooner in England, the one he kept moored at Greybeard Island: a wonderful boat called the Rambler.
“All shipshape in there, my laddie boy?” his father whispered through the opened door. “Still wearing the St. George’s medal Mummy gave you for your birthday?”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the boy said, reaching inside his pajama top and lifting it up on its thin gold chain for his father to see. “Anchor locker officer of the day, awaiting further orders, sir!” He raised his hand to his forehead in a little salute.
His father smiled and leaned inside to kiss his son on the cheek. “I love you, Alex. Don’t you worry, Daddy will be back soon. Don’t forget, three knocks.”
“Three knocks,” the boy replied, nodding his head. “Aye, aye, sir.”
As his father started to close the door, the boy saw that he had taken something else out of the locker. It was in his hand. His gun. The one from the war days that he always kept in his bedside drawer at home in England. The gun was dangerous and he was not allowed to touch it, even though he knew where it was and had peeked at it countless times.
“What’s wrong, Dad? Please tell me,” the boy said, trying desperately to be brave and not to cry. The gun scared him more than anything did.
“Sniper heard funny noises up on deck, that’s all. He woke me up. I’m going to go up on deck and see.” His father had trained Sniper in the old pirates’ ways. The black parrot would screech or squawk in alarm whenever anyone approached or if he heard any unusual noises.
His dad smiled then and held up the gun. “Look. I’m taking my service revolver, too. Whoever it is, they’ll be dead sorry they picked out this particular boat and this particular naval officer, I’ll tell you that.”
“But who, whoever would come on our boat in the middle of the night?” the boy asked.
“I’m not sure,” the man said with a little smile. And then, just before his father closed the door, the boy heard his father say, “Maybe it’s pirates, Alex.”
Little Alex Hawke’s eyes went wide.
“Pirates,” he repeated to himself in the darkness. He dreamed, it seemed, of pirates almost every night.
“Pirates,” he whispered in the darkness, turning the key in the lock. He put the key in his pajama pocket with the map. He had a great love, and a great fear, for pirates in his little heart. They were certainly bad, murdering thieves, weren’t they? But, still, their adventures were thrilling to hear about late at night with the wind howling about the eaves of the great house overlooking the sea.
Sitting by a crackling fire on rainy nights, listening to his grandfather tell of buccaneers and their bloodthirsty deeds, was one of his life’s great joys. Grandfather seemed to know every horrific pirate story by heart. And every single one of them, he told Alex, was absolutely true.
There was one story Alex cherished above all others.
The bloody tale of the life and horrible death of little Alex Hawke’s famous ancestor, the notorious cutthroat Blackhawke himself.
Alex heard a sharp metallic noise beyond his door.
There were three small ventilation slits in the locker door, and Alex pressed his eye to one of the openings. He could see his father checking his gun, cocking it, and then starting up the steel ladder that led to a big hatch at the top. The hatch opened up on the deck, right up on the bow of the sailboat, the boy knew. When his father reached the hatch, all Alex could see were two bare feet on the middle rung. He could hear his father unscrewing the two latches and pushing the hatch cover ever so slowly open. Moonlight poured down into the compartment, and cool night air, and he knew the hatch was now open.
His father’s feet quickly disappeared up the ladder and then it was quiet for a few moments. Alex took a deep breath and sat back on his blanket. It was still very stuffy and hot in the locker, and he hoped this game wouldn’t last too long. He groped for one of the life preservers he knew was stored here and placed it close to the door where he could sit on it and see through the vents.
No pirates about. Nothing. Just the empty storage compartment outside his door, and, beyond it, the empty companionway.
Still, a thought pushed its way into Alex’s mind.
A bad thing is coming.
He sat back on his makeshift cushion, telling himself it would all be all right. He started to count his blessings, which were many, the way his mother had taught him to do each night at bedtime.
He had a wonderful, happy family.
His mother was beautiful and kind. Famous, too.
His father and grandfather were both retired military men, and later British intelligence officers. His grandfather, upon retiring from the Royal Navy, had ended his long career as one of England’s greatest spies during the Second World War.
His father, whose name he’d inherited, was a commander in the Royal Navy, a great hero. But what he did mostly, Alex thought, was roam the world looking for bad guys. Of course, he didn’t have a big battleship like other captains, but he was a pilot, after all. He was now more of a policeman, really. Tracking down pirates, most likely, Alex thought, for, surely, there were still plenty of them lurking about.
Besides, he had a real pirate treasure map right in his pocket, didn’t he?
Suddenly, there was a sound above—a muffled shout, in some foreign language. Spanish, he thought, like his nanny back in England spoke to him, and he heard his father cry out something in Spanish, too.
The boy put his ear to the door, his heart thudding in his chest. He heard more shouts and more arguing in Spanish and then a loud thump on the deck just above his head. Then footsteps running this way toward the bow and much more shouting just above the hatch.
Alex put his eye to the slot. Nothing. Suddenly, his father came tumbling down through the hatch, landing with a shuddering thud on the cabin floor not four feet from his hiding place. There was bright blood streaming from a wound on his father’s forehead!
A scream was rising up in the boy’s throat, when he saw two feet descending the ladder. Two bare feet and legs coming down the rungs, and then a long black ponytail. The man had something on his shoulder, too, a drawing of a bug? A tattooed spider, he now saw, black with a red spot on its belly.
Spiders were bad. Alex had been terrified of them ever since he’d awoken one night to find one crawling across his face.
On his cheek. By his mouth. Had he not awoken, it would have crawled inside—
The man with the spider on his shoulder dropped to the floor and looked around, breathing hard. He had long, dark eyelashes, just like a girl.
“I am looking for a map, señor,” the man-girl said. “This map, this treasure you search for, belongs to my family! Every five-year-old in Cuba knows the story of the English pirate Blackhawke stealing the great treasure of de Herreras!”
The man then kicked his father in the stomach, hard enough to make him cry out and try to get to his feet.
“I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about, old chap,” Alex’s father said, breathing hard.
“I will tell you,” the man said, and kicked his father so hard Alex heard something crack inside his dad’s chest.
“The ancient treasure, stolen by the pirate Blackhawke, señor, it belonged to my famous ancestor, Admiral Andrés Manso de Herreras. I claim my ancestor’s gold in the name of my family, señor!”
The intruder stepped over him and turned so that he was now facing Alex. He was a slender, brownish man, who wore only a filthy pair of shorts and one gold earring. He was staring calmly down at Alex’s father. He had some kind of small machine gun, too, pointed at his father’s head. His father no longer had his gun. Alex forced himself to be still, though he felt his heart would explode.
“Dónde está el mapa, Señor Hawke?” the pretty man said. “Cuántos están en el barco?”
He was about to kick Alex’s father again, but, suddenly, Sniper swooped down through the open hatch, screeching, with his claws out. The bird flew right at the man’s face, slashing his cheek and drawing bright red blood.
The man cried out and tried to bat Sniper away, but the bird kept up his attack. Alex’s father, rolling over, grabbed the intruder’s small brown foot and yanked him off balance. He went down hard. Alex heard the whoosh of air coming out of him; and then his father was upon him, going for the hand with the gun. They both grunted, rolling over twice before they slammed against the doorframe. His father pinned the man there, and slammed the hand with the gun hard on the floor.