Blackbeard's Lost Treasure Read online

  Blackbeard's Lost Treasure: A Lucas Caine Novel

  Caleb Wygal

  Copyright © 2018 by Caleb Wygal.

  Visit the author’s website at www.CalebWygal.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews or as provided by US copyright law. Franklin/Kerr Press supports copyright and thanks you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book.

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

  Published by Franklin/Kerr Press, LLC

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  Cover Image © 2018 Fer Gregory/Shutterstock.com

  Cover Art & Interior design by Jordon Greene

  Printed in the United States of America

  SECOND EDITION

  ISBN-10: 0-9983913-6-0 (Paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9983913-6-6 (Paperback)

  Fiction: Crime

  Fiction: Mystery

  Fiction: Thriller & Suspense

  To

  Tasha for her love and support over the years.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  An undertaking such as this could not have come without the help, guidance, input and support without at least a few people. Thank you to Amber Repine and Kay Wygal for your suggestions on the overall flow of the story. Thank you to Matt Porter for helping my mind take a different track when plot hurdles arose. As always, thank you to my rock, my wife Tasha for supporting me through this entire process.

  I drew on Blackbeard’s background and the lives of pirates from Blackbeard: America’s Most Notorious Pirate by Angus Konstam and Pirates of the Carolinas by Terrance Zepke.

  Many of the events from the early 1700’s recounted here are real. I’ll leave it up to the reader to separate fact from fiction.

  But dead men tell no tales, they say!

  Except old tales that burn away

  The stifling tapestries of the day:

  Old tales of life, of love and hate,

  Of time and space, and will, and fate.

  --Haniel Long, 1888

  PROLOGUE

  FEBRUARY 13, 1717 11:22 A.M.

  Captain Ignacio Azarola hoped he had minutes to live. He feared the future that awaited him back in Spain if he somehow survived.

  A week earlier, Azarola left Havana harbor aboard a galleon named the Nuestra Senora de Atocha loaded with one of the last large shipments of silver and gold that would ever be found from the wreckage of the eleven ships of the Spanish Treasure Fleet, which sunk a year and a half earlier. Salvagers planned more dives, although as soaked chests, crates, and boxes of treasure were brought to the surface and tabulated, the accountants knew there couldn’t be much remaining.

  The day was cool and blustery, creating choppy swells in the shallow Atlantic. Thick cloud cover lay overhead, casting a dull pall over the cold late-winter waters.

  With plumes of dark gray smoke spilling out of several holes in the hull made from cannon strikes, the Atocha struggled to stay afloat. The lanteen-rigged bonaventure mizzen at the front of the ship disappeared in a well-aimed volley of cannon fire. The decks and remaining mizzenmasts slanted slightly to port.

  A terrible storm the previous day caused the Atocha and her protecting ship, the San Jeronimo to separate and lose sight of each other. The onslaught of waves had propelled them apart. Endless torrents of sideways rain limited visibility to a few feet. By the time the storm subsided, the two ships were miles away from another. The winds pushed the Atocha towards the Georgia shore and the Jeronimo further out to sea.

  This made Azarola uneasy. Before leaving Cuba, his crew removed most of their cannons because of the enormous weight in the holds. The ship, pregnant with tons of gold, silver, and jewels, had already sat low in the water before the first salvo of cannon fire struck. Then, when the ship stumbled closer to shore, it foundered on a sandbar. They were stuck.

  As the Atocha’s crew tried to collect their bearings in the shallow waters off the Georgia coast after the storm subsided, a smaller sloop bearing a British flag had approached. It came from behind a small island. Although tensions between Spain and England were better now with the treaty, Azerola was still wary. He hoped they were just locals coming out to see if the newcomer needed help.

  The ship came across their bow and heaved to on their windward side about three hundred yards away, which Azerola thought odd. He thought they would have done the opposite to make it easier to catch the wind and get underway once they were finished helping the Atocha.

  Although it could be the Brits being Brits, he thought. Always making things difficult.

  Something tugged at the back of Azerola’s mind, keeping him alert. Many bays, inlets, islands, and shoals lined this length of the Atlantic coast, making it a popular hiding place for bandits. What made him suspicious was that he knew he was still half a day’s sail away from reaching British controlled waters. They were just north of the Spanish stronghold of Savannah, headed towards the safer waters of Virginia.

  He ordered his men to arm themselves and be at the ready. He closed his left eye and brought a spyglass up to his right. He saw three smiling men on the top deck of the approaching ship with more joining them from below decks. They appeared ready to help Azerola.

  He took the spyglass down, set it aside, and let out a relieved breath. Help was about to arrive.

  Or so he thought.

  As the sloop came to a relative halt, a crewman pulled down the British flag and raised the most terrorizing flag he had ever seen in his many years at sea. When a ship raised a pirate flag, it was meant to intimidate other ships. Imagery such as skulls, skeletons, and hourglasses on the flags often told of the death and torture about to come to their prey, although many pirates lacked imagination and used a traditional Skull and Crossbones flag.

  What this flag depicted chilled Azerola to the core. On it, a skeleton had a raised goblet in his right hand and a spear piercing a bleeding heart in the other. The goblet was raised in a toast to the Devil. The spear and blood-dripping heart were self-explanatory.

  The men alongside Azerola on the top deck gasped in fear. The deck of the other ship was now filled with about seventy or so angry, filthy, shouting, pirates launching fusillades of threats and curses at the Spanish sailors.

  The sloop drew closer.

  Azerola knew an attack was imminent. If the pirates came close enough to come aboard, he knew it would be all over.

  He commanded his men to prepare for battle. “Arm yourselves! We fight for the crown!”

  After another moment of his men staring slack-jawed at the marauding vessel, they jumped into action. He saw several modifications on the sloop across the water. Fourteen cannons lined the starboard side facing them. Azerola knew that was about double the amount a sloop normally carried. He thought the added weight of the cannons might slow the pirates down, although with his ship floundering, the speed of the two vessels mattered little. They were close enough together for the ordinance men who fired the cannons to be able to aim with p
recision. If the pirates wanted to pierce the foredeck, they would be able to with ease. If they wanted to bring down the Atocha’s masts, it wouldn’t be a problem.

  The sloop drew closer.

  The muscles in Azerola’s neck and shoulders tensed. He saw his men casting nervous glances at the approaching vessel.

  He raised his spyglass to his eye again to get a better view of what he faced. The pirates were filthy and wore ragged clothes. He could see many of them were missing teeth and had visible scars. Some had raised cutlasses in one hand, and—Azerola did a double take—in a few instances that was their only hand. He counted three who had one arm. Their other arm was no doubt lost in some vile manner. Others wore prerequisite eye patches for a pirate. He saw at least two who had a pointy hook for a hand.

  The sloop drew ever closer.

  The pirates on the sloop looked like they had seen their share of battles and been through many fights before now as they drew alongside Azerola and his ship. He risked a glance out over the ocean to see if he could spot his protecting ship. Their return would be the only hope he and his men would get through this unscathed. To his disappointment, all he saw besides the swells in the ocean and the dark clouds above were a few seagulls in flight.

  There would be no help coming.

  The sloop was twenty feet off to starboard. He could almost smell them.

  Without warning, five of the sloop’s cannons fired. With pinpoint accuracy, the pirate ship crippled the Atocha. Although no one died in the volley, a few sailors caught some splinters, drawing blood.

  He was about to order his men to counterattack when he saw the pirates stop their clamoring and become still. They stepped aside and gave a wide berth for someone to step through.

  Azerola’s men had been ready to respond but stopped to watch what was happening on the other ship. Black smoke poured from the hull of the Atocha where three cannonballs had penetrated. Azerola hoped the dark plumes would be a signal to the Jeronimo, although any help at this point might be too late.

  All was quiet except the sounds of the waves splashing against the wooden sides of the ships and a squawking seagull who dared to venture close. As it sailed over the sloop, it too became quiet before flying away.

  Even the seagull knew this was not a place for an innocent bystander to be at this moment.

  Then Azerola saw why the pirates parted. A frightening man who stood a head taller than the rest of his crew appeared and stepped forward with a confident bearing. Azerola heard his men gasp. One young crewmember to his left began sobbing. A few cowards covered their eyes.

  To all outward appearances, the figure on the other ship resembled a demon. A long, black heavy coat hung from his broad shoulders. A cutlass swung from his right hip and a leather holster containing three flintlock pistols hung from his right shoulder and disappeared around his left hip.

  What captured everyone’s attention, and put the men at unease, was the figure’s head. A black tricorne hat was perched atop his head. Two lit hemp fuses stuck out from either side of the hat, causing a dark cloud to cover most of his face.

  His most notable feature, however, was his long, black beard that spread out over most of his face and fell to below his chest.

  He was a giant among the men, and his countenance put everyone—on both ships—at unease.

  In all of Azerola’s travels across the oceans and around the world, he had never seen something that frightened him more. He knew his death was close at hand. He was outgunned, his ship was dead in the water, and had no foreseeable help coming.

  The demon stepped to the sloop’s edge and stared across the water at the Spanish ship. He viewed every Spanish sailor who dared to look at him right in the eye. Finally, his gaze settled on Azerola who stood in the center of the Spanish sailors across the short distance.

  Azerola gulped. When the pirate saw this, he knew he had won.

  Azerola spoke little English. While he didn’t understand many of the words and insults hurled at him and his men, he surmised the intent: Give us what you have in your stores or die.

  He knew that wasn’t an option. If he relinquished the treasure down below, he faced spending the remainder of his life in a Spanish jail . . . if he made it back to Spain alive. Losing such a treasure was an unforgivable offense.

  The pirate captain shouted something to Azerola. His lieutenant stepped to his side and translated, “He calls you a bastard with a whore as a mother.”

  Azerola winced.

  “He says,” the lieutenant hesitated before continuing with his translation, “he says for us to lay down our weapons and let them come aboard or they will cut off our hands and feet, gouge out our eyes, burn off our testicles and then finally kill us by chopping off our heads and throwing the bodies overboard for the sharks to feast upon.”

  Azerola resisted the urge to release his bladder. He looked around and saw some of his crew who could speak English was unable to do the same. He felt cold perspiration form on the back of his neck.

  He had two choices: to ignore the demand and attack the pirates, likely dooming himself and all of his crew to a gory death, or give in and let the pirates come aboard and rob them of the treasure below decks. That would likely spare Azerola’s crew, although either way, Azerola knew he was a dead man.

  • • •

  In the end, Azerola did what he had to do. He acquiesced to the pirate’s demands. He might be a dead man walking, although there was no reason to sacrifice his men to these butchers.

  The pirates slung grappling hooks across the narrow gap and pulled the two vessels together. Azerola instructed his crew to step aside and allow the pirates to have complete access to the Atocha. The first wave of pirates crossed with evil grins directed at the Spaniards and disappeared into the holds below.

  When pirates captured a ship, they hoped to find goods such as sugar, tobacco, indigo, rum, or spices. To find actual silver and gold was a rarity. Azerola almost wished he could have been below when the pirates saw what was in the Atocha’s holds.

  Standing on the other side of deck wall, the demon captain with the black beard remained in place—as much for intimidation of the Spanish as to direct his own crew. The dark cloud surrounding the man had disappeared. The hemp fuses sticking out of his hat had burned out.

  While the dark cloud had scared the Spanish men witless, it was replaced by a set of piercing blue eyes that delved deep into the soul of anyone who made eye contact.

  After a few minutes, one of the first pirates to go across to the Atocha reappeared and walked up to the pirate demon. He spoke quietly to the bearded man for a few minutes. Azerola could guess at what the conversation was about: treasure, real bonafide treasure.

  The conversation ceased and the bearded pirate seemed to consider the situation for a few heartbeats before giving instructions to his man. After the man scurried back below the Atocha, the bearded pirate locked eyes with Azerola.

  “My second in command, Mr. Hands,” the pirate said in perfect Spanish, “tells me you have great quantities of silver and gold on board.”

  Azerola gulped again, and nodded.

  The bearded man fixed the Spaniard with a threatening glare, took an aggressive step onto the Atocha, and stood inches from Azarola. He could smell a mixture of sweat, rum, and ganja coming from the pirate. The scent of the drug came from the burned out hemp fuses sticking out from the pirate’s hat.

  The man was stoned, Azerola thought, and now he knew about the treasure below.

  The stakes just got much higher.

  The pirate unsheathed his cutlass and held it to Azerola’s throat. “You must be one of King Phillip’s salvage ships.”

  Azerola tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

  “Speak you filthy swine,” the pirate shouted. The action caused the blade to graze the skin on Azerola’s Adam’s apple. A trickle of blood fell onto the blade, rolled down and off the steel and splashed on the deck.

  “Yes, yes,”
Azerola stammered. “It was brought up from the wreckage of the treasure fleet. Please, please take all you want.”

  To Azerola’s relief, the pirate lowered the sword and stepped back a half a pace. He could feel cold sweat trickle down his back and into his breeches. His men stared on at the confrontation in silence. Their fates would be decided in the next few moments.

  The pirate pursed his lips and considered, holding eye contact with Azerola. “Where is your protecting vessel? I know Governor Corioles wouldn’t allow a ship carrying so much treasure to sail these waters alone. Where is it?”

  “I do not know,” Azerola said quickly. “The storm yesterday separated us. We have not seen them since last afternoon.”

  “Yes, a nasty swell that was,” the pirate agreed and contemplated.

  Then, a dark-skinned deckhand appeared at the edge of the sloop and gestured out at the ocean. “Captain Teach! Captain Teach! A Spanish galleon! A Spanish galleon!”

  The bearded man, who Azerola presumed was Captain Teach, turned and looked at where the young pirate pointed. On the horizon, behind the pirate sloop, the Jeronimo appeared.

  Azerola heaved a huge sigh of relief. Help had arrived, although he knew he wasn’t safe . . . yet.

  Teach made a quick decision. He knew that with the arrival of the larger Spanish warship he was now the one at a disadvantage as far as position and firepower. He didn’t have enough bodies to man the Atocha’s guns and the one’s on his sloop. He did have speed on his side and time. He knew the warship was still a good twenty minutes away from being within firing range.

  He shouted to a group of ten pirates waiting to aboard the galleon. “Quick! Go below and take whatever you can in one trip. Be fast. Tell Mr. Hands and the others already below to get back here!”

  “Aye, captain!” the man said, and led his crew across to the galleon and into the storage area below.