Lost deep in thought, her majesty stood and began pacing around my cell. It was best during these moments of reflection to keep silent I had learned. And so I waited patiently until her highness was ready to hear more of my wretched tale.

  “Good, good,” the queen mumbled to herself after a time. “We now have a more perfect understanding of things that had perplexed us before.”

  I bowed my head. “I am glad if I’ve been of service in some small way, your Highness.”

  “Let us see. You were the victim of a great, unspeakable evil at the tender age of twelve or so. After Lord O’Malley took you in, you spent your days working a tavern and learning about ships that sail the wild sea. Later, from his deathbed, Lord O’Malley whispered in your ear that you were his illegitimate daughter and he left you an inheritance, an impressive sum of money. You used this godsend to purchase your own ship and crew and you tried your hand at smuggling. During the next few years you did well, adding more ships and men to your expanding enterprise until one day Dowlin, a jealous sort, provoked you when he seized one of your vessels to take you down a peg or two. You openly challenged this clan chieftain, insulted him in public and he answered you by snatching a young girl away from you, a girl who was very, very dear to you. Gretchen was her name. Dowlin brutally murdered this poor child and you avenged her death by beheading Dowlin and taking his ship and gold. Ah, but then you had the Twins to contend with. You set a trap for them at Great Saltee - but this dangerous pair of brutes survived your clever ambush, leaving you in quite a fine pickle.”

  The queen stopped her pacing in front of me; she looked down on me and smiled. “Certainly not the happiest of stories we’ve ever heard, Mary. Still, by any measure, it is a most beguiling tale.”

  “You have summed-up the gest of things quite well, your Majesty.”

  “Just so, Mary. My Lord Cecil, do you have all that?”

  “Indeed I do my Queen. Indeed I do.”

  “Good. Let us know if your fingers begin to cramp, my lord. Now Mary, you must again summon up your courage. Please continue with your story. We would have you tell us more about your exploits. We would have you tell us more about the Twins.”

  We lost five good men that night we fought the Twins and all their men at Saltee. I did not know them well. One man died from his wounds from the ambush. The others were killed at sea by one, well-placed shot during the brief skirmish between the Phantom and the Twins’ war-carrack. Phantom herself suffered only minor damage. We buried our fallen comrades next to nearly seventy of the Twins’ own. We had taken thirty prisoners too, mostly wounded, who we patched up and later set free, including Flannigan and his men. Some weeks later we learned that the Twins were still very much alive, though one had lost an eye from shrapnel we heard. The Twins had fled back to Youghal, their stronghold, a place I dared not go.

  Saltee might seem like a great victory, a slaughter. But no. I knew, we all knew, that we had only managed to insult the hideous, twin-headed monster. We had only made it angry.

  In truth my plan had failed. The Twins were alive and more dangerous than before for now they knew the face of their enemy. There would be a price on my head for all the rest of my days - and the reach of the Twins was long. I reconciled myself to an early, grisly death.

  Blessed with calm seas and fair winds, my tiny fleet of two made an uneventful journey back to Westport, back to our safe haven on the west coast of Ireland though I did not know if we would be welcome there. The O’Malleys had no cause to risk war with the Twins by giving sanctuary to thieves. Or so I had imagined.

  To my surprise, our little adventure in the Irish Sea had caused barely a ripple in Westport. Our hosts were most gracious, even sympathetic to our plight, especially after I shared a portion of the spoils - half of Dowlin’s treasure - with them. A heavy price to pay to be sure, but I knew the Twins would learn of it. Then it would seem as if the raid against Dowlin had been sanctioned by the powerful O’Malley clan and that suited me just fine.

  The O’Malleys, a tribe of stout warriors with a rich history in seafaring, had many ships and men-at-arms and castles in the west. They had formed powerful alliances with other clans too and were hardly friends of any of the clans who ruled the east. Even the English army gave the O’Malleys their due respect and kept its distance.

  Even so, I knew we could not tarry long in Westport. Ireland has never been a peaceful, tranquil land and now the country was in the midst of great upheaval. The old Gaelic order was under siege and dying.

  For generations - beyond the memory of time - the clans had been fighting between themselves for power. But in more recent years, our island has been particularly beset by change and turmoil brought from across the sea. After her majesty’s father, King Henry VIII, claimed the crown of Ireland for himself in the 1540’s, he quietly went about converting Irish lords into English lords, lords loyal to his royal person. And then under Mary Tudor’s policy of expansion, given the quaint name of Plantation, a policy her majesty is well familiar with, English settlors started arriving on the shores of Ireland in droves. They call themselves the New English and they are given land confiscated from the Irish. These New English bring their English customs and English laws with them. They bring the Protestant Reformation. Their intolerance for all that is Catholic is strong. Their aversion to anything Irish is plain.

  Oh, what a toxic brew to choke on. The Irish are a proud and independent people and they did what they always do when their independence is threatened: they took up the sword, the bow and the musket and rebelled of course.

  My men and I spent the harshest days of winter at Westport hiding away under shelter. The winter gales whipping down from the Arctic were particularly fierce that year and I was grateful we could afford to remain warm and dry in port. We used our time to overhaul Phantom and Falling Star and we frequented our favorite taverns, listening to talk of war with the English and debating what to do once Eternal Spring returned to bless the land.

  I lost two small vessels that winter in the Irish Sea. The ships, both galleys, were returning to Ireland from Spain and heading for a small town north of Dublin named Rush. Dowlin henchmen had intercepted and seized my ships and cargo. But, by the grace of God, the Dowlin clan spared my men and set them free - unaware they sailed for me.

  A young tavern wench, a demure, comely little trinket, brought more ale and removed our plates. Between the heavy fare, the strong ale and liquor, and the inn’s roaring fire, we had all fallen into a pleasant, after-supper stupor.

  Hunter was the first to break the long silence. “Where away next, Mar-Mary?” he asked, slurring his words while keeping his bloodshot eyes focused on his tankard of ale. “I, I much prefers being po-poor and sailing across the briny sea than reasch, rea-rea-rich and fuckin’ bored witless on land.”

  All my officers suddenly perked up and looked at me, waiting for my answer. But I would not decide alone.

  “We all know the choices,” I said. “We are living in a golden age, an age of opportunity. North, South, East or West, they all sound enticing to me - what’s your pleasure, lads?”

  “A decision, I hasten to point out,” offered Gilley, the only one among us who was still sober, “we must not make lightly.”

  “Just so,” I replied.

  “How far Norrrth or Sou-Sou-South or East or West are you thinkin’ of, Mary?” Hunter asked.

  “Far enough away to lose the Twins, but not so far away we lose a chance at reaping handsome profits.”

  “There be the rub, Mary,” Gilley said, sympathetically nodding in agreement.

  Green, Fox, Efendi and Ferguson all nodded along with Gilley.

  But not Hunter, he smiled and winked at me instead. “A man or a woman,” he said, intentionally pushing his tankard of ale off the table, “can sail too far and fall off, fall off, off, the edge of the world Mary and disappear forever.”

  “I thought,” Green asked, alarmed, “Fernão de Magalhães proved the earth was round not so long ago, that the planet has no edge, no great precipice? He didn’t circumnavigate the globe? The earth is flat like a pancake?”

  We all burst out laughing at poor Green’s expense.

  “Pay them blockheads no mind, Ben,” I said, trying to suppress both the giggles and the hiccups; I caressed his flushed cheek with the back of my hand. “I doubt any of those ignorant baboons even knows who Magalhães was and at the very least you do. So, gentlemen, we lost two good ships last month. Trading with Spain and other kingdoms was good business for us in the past. But the Dowlin clan has cost us a pretty penny and the Síol Faolcháin can cause us even more woe if we stay and flaunt our disdain for their authority and power. The risks for us will only grow.”

  Gilley rested a hand on Efendi’s shoulder. “Tell us again Mustafa about all that fabulous wealth in Persia.”

  “More wealth than any one man could count in a lifetime,” Efendi answered in his broken English. “But why do you think Turkish pirates sail all this way to Ireland to raid Irish ships and towns? The Ottoman Sultan, Seri Selim, the son of Suleiman the Magnificent, is an unbelievably rich and powerful prince and he is very jealous of his possessions. He’ll not part with them easily. Not even one, meager ashrafi coin. And the Mediterranean, well, its waters are fouled with desperate cutthroats and bloodthirsty marauders of every sort and kind, especially along the coast of North Africa. No, no, my friends. We should leave the East alone.”

  “Well,” Gilley replied, “there’s nothing to the South but open water, Africa and the slave trade. Not much to the North. The Swedes have a settlement in Ingermanland at the mouth of the Neva River if you have a taste for Russian goods. But God, I hear it’s cold. Hunter, you speak very little about your travels to the West, to the New World. Tell us what you’ve seen and done there.”

  Hunter took a deep breath and looked past us, staring out the tavern window as if he had found something of interest far off in the distance. “If,” he finally said, “you have a taste for silver, gold, pearls, tobacco, spices, sugar or the like, the Caribbean is an interesting place. But no one can match a Spaniard in cruelty.”

  I squeezed Hunter’s forearm reassuringly. I knew I had to tread carefully. Hunter never spoke much about his travels to the New World and when he did, he chose his words carefully, sparingly and with little joy.

  “So the Caribbean, James, this is where you sailed with the Spanish?” I asked.

  “Aye, mostly.”

  “Did you see the Silver Train?” Gilley asked excitedly. ““Is it true what others say?”

  “The Silver Train is more than just legend, Tom.”

  Gilley looked at Hunter wide-eyed. “You’ve actually seen it?”

  “I’ve more than seen it. I’ve traveled with it.”

  “Oh? Tell us more!”

  “Aye, I was with the train in Nueva España - New Spain. The jour, journ, journey began at Minas de los Zacatecas, a city in the central part of the country, and ended in Veracruz on the coast where silversmiths melt the silver ore from the mines down into coins and bullion. I saw, I exaggerate not, mountains of silver ore, Tom. And in the south, long caravans of mules and men moved stag, staggering amounts of gold and silver up from Cartagena to a place called Nombre de Diós - the Name of God - a small town on the Isthmus of Panama. From those two ports the Spanish load their wealth onto the great galleons and carracks of the flota once a year to ship it all back to Seville.”

  “Mountains of silver and gold you say?” Green asked.

  “I tell you Ben, you cannot imagine it. You must see what I saw for yourself to comprehend it all. The Spanish call Zacatecas the Ciudad de Nuestra Señora de los Zacatecas, though I would call it hell. Zacatecas is where the Spanish force the Indian peoples, men, women - even young children - below ground to work the mines. The Indians, poor wretches, make terrible slaves and die quickly in those dirty holes. The savagery is beyond imagining. Hell is a real place my friends. I have seen it.”

  “Did you sail with the Spanish fleet?” I asked gently, trying to nudge Hunter away from his darker memories.

  “Aye, aye I did.”

  “What,” Gilley asked, “in God’s holy name did the Spanish want with an Englishman?”

  Hunter cracked a smile. “An Englishman? No, I passed myself off as an Irishman as the Spanish aren’t overly fond of the English. I have skills at navigation, on land and at sea, and I happen to have a talent for mapmaking. The Spanish hired me to help them explore new territories deeper into New Spain. I traveled west with a company of conqui, conquistadors until we reached Acapulco, a port on the Pacific coast. And then we traveled north for many weeks into Los Californias, taking horses and pack mules with us, looking for only God knows what. Some legendary lost kingdom in the wilderness once ruled by a race of Amazon warriors is what I overheard some Spaniards claim. We never found it. The expedition proved a sorry waste of time.”

  “You mean El Dorado?” I asked. We had all heard the stories of El Dorado.

  Hunter shook his head. “No, not El Dorado. Myths and legends abound in the New World. El Dorado I suspect is one of the myths. The success or failure of our expedition north of Acapulco hardly mattered to me though. The Spanish paid me well. But, in truth, I was working for the French.”

  “The French?” asked Gilley. “How so?”

  “The French paid me to spy on the Spanish.”

  “You were a spy for the French?” I asked, stunned. “Good Lord!”

  “Quite so, Mary. Why so surprised? The Spanish rob the Indians of their gold and silver and the French rob the Spanish in turn, where and when they can. The French and Spanish are at war, or leastwise they were. The French retained my services to gather information, whatever I could learn.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Hunter sat back in his chair and took a deep breath to try and clear his head. “Ah, well now, there’s a story there. The Flota de Indias, a grand fleet of nearly sixty ships with galleons, freighters and transports, weighed anchor in early March one year and set out before the season of the huracán. I was with it. But storms were not our only worry. The French had more than just spies in the New World. French buccaneers infest the sea lanes between Veracruz and Seville. I sailed with the Inca, a slow, leaky caravel, a merchantman. In Havana, a port on the windward side of the large island of Cuba, we rendezvoused with the plate flota sailing up from Peru before we began our trip back to the Old World. Two weeks out from Havana, we were and blown off course somewhere north of the Lesser Antilles when our ship, struggling against heavy seas and bucking against strong headwinds, fell behind the main convoy. A French twenty gunner happened upon us and ran us down. The French seized our ship and set the crew and me adrift in the boats thinking, no doubt that they were handing us a death sentence. We rowed for weeks in those tiny boats out on the open water. The Inca’s master was a gifted seaman though and kept us all alive. Except to take on food and water, we avoided the nearest islands because of hostile Indians. We sailed for Trinidad, but our boats gave out before we could reach that safe haven and we found ourselves marooned on - .”

  But Hunter stopped abruptly in mid-sentence when armed men burst into the tavern, coming in through the tavern’s back door. Trouble had found us.

  “There’s the bitch, kill her!” an angry voice cried out.

  “Assassins!” Gilley shouted and jumped to his feet.

  I spun around in my chair to find a dozen men with their muskets already cocked and leveled at us. We had no chance to draw our own. The intruders took a step forward with grins all around.

  We all would have died that day but for the tavern’s quick-witted proprietor, a man named Shaw. Shaw saved us. He was one of mine. I paid him and paid him well to watch our backs whenever we were in port.

  “Another step and you’re all dead men,” Shaw said calmly as he came up behind the rascals with his two strapping sons standing at his side. Shaw and his boys each held a brace of pistols, cocked and at the ready.

  All twelve men spun around to face Shaw and his boys. And in that brief moment, when these brigands hesitated for just an instant to consider this new threat behind them, my men and I drew our swords and pistols. Now we had our assailants surrounded, though they held the upper-hand in numbers.

  I recognized one of the men. I’d seen him once somewhere before though I couldn’t remember where. He had a distinctive red birthmark splattered across his chin and left cheek like paint.

  “I know you!” I blurted out in an angry tone, pointing my sword at him. I hoped to draw attention away from Shaw and his boys.

  The man spun around to face me. The fool killed himself when he raised his musket at my chest.

  Nearly quicker than the eye can see, Efendi reached into his sleeve, whipped out a throwing knife and flung it across the room. The blade buried itself deep in the man’s windpipe, just below his Adam’s apple. He looked at me wide-eyed as he dropped his musket and crumpled to the ground, clutching at his throat. Then Shaw and his boys discharged their pistols, six shots in all, instantly filling the room with gun smoke. Hunter seized the moment, took advantage of the confusion, and leapt into the midst of the hoodlums with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, pouncing with the ferocity of a lion hungry for the kill. In a whirl of motion he cut one, two and then a third man down. Gilley shot a fourth man dead and Green, Fox, and Ferguson all fired their pistols too.

  In less than a dozen heartbeats eleven men lay dead or dying on the tavern’s cold, dirt floor. Not the noblest of places to lose one’s life. The lone survivor dropped his musket, fell to his knees and raised his hands above his head.

  Hunter grabbed the man by his collar. “Who sent you?”

  “Avé María, grátia pléna, avé María, grátia pléna, avé María, grátia pléna,” the man repeated over and over again.

  Hunter put the edge of his sword against the man’s throat and nicked him. “You can deliver your prayers in person once you’re dead. Now tell me who sent you or I swear by Christ I’ll pluck out both your eyes. And then, if you still have a mind to be stubborn, I’ll slice off your privates and feed them to the dogs. After that, if you still have nothing to say to me, I’ll cut out your worthless tongue - the Spanish taught me how to make a man squeal - they taught me well my friend. Your death will not be quick or easy...”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39