23 August 1675
Île de Saint Thérèse, the Caribbean
The seas lay surprisingly still.
Aboard the
Wyvern, the sailors lounged languidly about the deck, weary from the sweltering summer heat. That would have to change.
“Mr. Drummond, beat to quarters,” called Captain Morganne. He watched calmly while the squat 1st Lieutenant barked out his orders.
“All hands, man your battle stations!”
“What is it, Captain?” asked Mullins, the 2nd Lieutenant, “There’s been no sign of an enemy ship for weeks.”
“Hold fast, Mr. Mullins,” said Morganne, “Keep your cool, and prepare yourself for action.” The younger officer looked utterly bewildered, his commander inscrutable.
Suddenly, a loud cry echoed down from the crow’s nest, as if on command: “Sail Ho!”
Lieutenant Mullins hurried off to grab his sword, leaving Captain Morganne lost in thought on the quarterdeck.
As the commanding officer of a royal privateer commissioned by His Majesty, the King of England and France, Captain Henri Morganne had been given letters of marque authorizing him to hunt down at least a dozen of the most dangerous pirates of the Caribbean. For the past two years, he and the gallant crew of the
Wyvern had handled this task with impunity. Morganne copiously listed their many achievements in his mind: sinking the
Melisende, cornering the rogue frigate
Implacable off the coast of Vinland, cutting down that blackguard Eiriksson upon the bridge of his own sloop.
All of these achievements paled in comparison to what they would accomplish this day: the ambush and capture of the dreaded Teutonic corsair, Barbarossa. Morganne had memorized the treacherous German’s dossier: born Heinrich von Staufenburg in 1631 to aristocratic parents, commissioned as a young officer in the
Reichsflotte. His record was spotless and impressive -- some had whispered that he might even rise one day to the rank of Grand Admiral. Then he had fallen, unexpectedly, meteorically; what had followed was a career of ruthless piracy almost two decades long, all for no apparent reason.
Captain “Barbarossa,” so named for his distinctive red beard.
Henri Morganne continued to silently ponder while the men under his command rushed around him in a frenzied hive of activity, taking little notice of their pensive captain. Barbarossa’s pristine record was a marked contrast to his own: nearly thrown out of the Anglo-French navy for defying orders (never mind that they had been unjust), the recipient of five demerits over the course of just three years, not to mention one official censure. And now, despite his tempestuous Welsh past, he found himself in command of his own ship, hunting pirates on the far side of the world. The King himself had even referred to him by name on more than one occasion, calling him “indipensable,” and “my own good sea dog.” What twist of fate had brought him to this position of prestige, Morganne did not know.
It had taken the
Wyvern several weeks to track down Barbarossa. The man was nigh unto untraceable. At the last, it was one of the pirate captain’s own former comrades that had betrayed him, the Frenchman Jacques Moineau. The betrayal was Moineau’s way of revenging himself on Barbarossa, who had marooned him on a desert island for a year . The eccentric buccaneer had expressed his bitter sentiments so succinctly. “One ill turn deserves another, mate,” he had said, summarizing the entire piratical existence in a solitary sentence.
The Frenchman’s information had been invaluable. Barbarossa had apparently been searching for something valuable over the last several years, decades really, and at last he seemed to have found it. Moineau had said that his old captain had been attempting to steal something of great import from the Aztecs.
“Robbing the Aztecs?” Morganne had replied incredulously, “Their empire is totally implacable. Such a deed would be the height of folly!”
Then Moineau had said something that Henri Morganne had not expected. “Not if they
want it to be stolen.”
Morganne winced at the memory. It was now clear to him that he was at the heart of a conspiracy so complex that it involved most of the great world empires in one way or another, even as far distant as Outremer. The weight of this revelation weighed heavily on him, making him prone to fits of intense brooding as he tried to puzzle it out. He could not afford to fail, not with the fate of the world now resting in his hands.
He shook himself out of his contemplative mood. Now was not the time for introspection, for there it was; several yards off the starboard bow he could just glimpse the sails of Barbarossa’s vessel, the
Black Destiny, as it emerged from its hiding place.
Jacques Moineau had been quite specific. Barbarossa’s secret lair was located in a hidden inlet on the nearly-forgotten little island of Saint Thérèse. Captain Morganne had planned his tactics accordingly. They would catch the pirates unawares, bombard them as they lay anchored, and capture the whole verminous lot in one swift stroke. But something was terribly wrong -- the
Black Destiny should not be coming out to meet
them. “They must’ve known we were coming!” shouted Morganne, breaking his own internal monologue. His eyes caught sight of Barbarossa’s banner being hoisted aloft on the pirate ship -- black, with the familiar skull and crossed blades.
A moment later, the
Wyvern shuddered as the
Black Destiny’s broadside tore into its hull with a deafening roar. Someone cried out, “Captain!” Then everything went black.