Pirate's Treasure

8 “Giovanni!”  the cry was weak and hoarse.  He stood on the raft and looked around, his eyes squinting in the noonday sun.  There was splashing a hundred or so yards to his right. “Here!  It’s me, Matthews!”  he yelled, “and I 'ave Will!” Giovanni jumped into the cold water and quickly swam out to them.  Matthews was holding onto a broken barrel with one hand and Will with the other.  Matthews had a deep gash on his forehead and Will’s head was barely above water.  Giovanni placed himself on the barrel opposite Matthews and pulled on Will, getting his face farther out of the water.  He sputtered and rolled his head from side to side, looking at them with one half open eye.  He smiled slightly. “We must get out of the water,” said Giovanni, “it’s too cold.”  Matthews just nodded weakly.  His lips were blue and his teeth chattered occasionally.  They kicked and paddled to Giovanni’s raft.  He helped Matthews ...

7 “Did you hear something?” “I’m not sure.” Captain François D’Bollier peered into the fog from the rail of his quarterdeck.  He couldn’t see more than a few fathoms over the water.  He had left port the night before, counting on just this kind of weather to get past the English ships, but sailing in this soup made him nervous. “Silence fore and aft!” ordered the first mate in a loud whisper.  Both strained to see or hear anything. “I don’t think there’s anything out there but keep the bells muted for now.  We’ve got to get farther out before we start worrying about prizes.  Have to make sure we’re past the blockade.” “Aye aye sir,” smiled the first mate, a glint in his eye. Captain D’Bollier knew what that glint was, hunger for gold.  This was their third cruise together and each of the previous had been very successful.  As the war had worn on and reached a kind of stalemate with little naval action, English merchantmen had become car...

6 It was a month before the longed for supply ship arrived. “Can you see it?”  It was Matthews, straining to see around the knot of men who were crowding every open gunport, trying to catch a glimpse of the ship.” “Aye, hull up off our quarter.”  came the reply “She looks like the Sprucol, ‘Ol Arnold’s ship.” “Arnold’s a fat one,” laughed another.  “Hope he ain’t eat all our hash!”  This elicited several chuckles. “Whatever's left got’s to be better than the whack we’ve got!” “Jonnick mate, bottom of the barrel for sure!” “Aye, can’t wait for some good grog, that addle’s been piss!”  This statement generated plenty of hearty agreement. Giovanni couldn’t argue.  After his introduction to British Navy rations on the Vitol things had gotten steadily worse.  The grog was watered down so much one could hardly taste the rum and the water had been putrid for the last two weeks.  The average sailor may not have much but he is generall...

5 It was indeed the Penbroke they reached as the sun kissed the horizon.  Even though exhausted from rowing, the men clambered up the side after the officers.  As Giovanni’s head came up over the rail he caught his first glimpse of Captain Augustus Fairbain or ‘Fighting Fairbain’ as he was known after the Gibraltar action.  He and Littlewort were conversing, Littlewort waving a glass of wine was he talked.  There couldn’t be a greater contrast between the two men.  The only thing similar about them was their height.  Fairbain was trim in his blue waistcoat and cream colored breeches, broad at the shoulder with a powerful physical presence barely restrained by his rank and position.  He held himself straight and erect, his mannerisms courtly.  Long, dark brown hair was clubbed at his neck.  His face was thin and long with a finely curved nose.  His light eyes were intelligent, taking in everything at once even as he listened to the an...