A Pirate's Legacy 5: The Bones

By Sean Patrick O'Mordha

David's pirate ancestor, the Dolphin, caused the sinking of a Spanish treasure ship off the coast of southern Cuba. Now a Ph.D. Archaeologist, David is ready to recover the treasure which he believes is significantly more valuable than the gold, silver, and jewels undoubtedly aboard. Now married to Concepción, they have a boy who becomes the delight of an old Haitian lady where they base their operations. Not only does David have to contend with the Boggues cartel, but also an antagonistic Cuban government official who attempts to interfere. What David discovers is beyond his wildest dreams--both underwater and about his son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Patrick O'Mordha
• Release date: Feb 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301511587

Sean Patrick O'Mordha

Sean O'Mordha grew up riding horses through the mountains of SE Wyoming. Fresh out of high school and attending the University of Nebraska - Lincoln, he landed the job of cub reporter for a major newspaper there. During the next two years, he studied journalism and archaeology and came under the tutelage of writer, Rod Serling. That career path was interrupted upon receiving an all-expense, paid trip to Vietnam courtesy of Uncle Sam. Returning home, life took a decidedly different direction as he a Law Enforcement Officer, completing a career as a Federal officer and special prosecutor in his native Wyoming twenty-two years later. During this time he actively wrote for National and International police journals. Upon retirement, he continued writing non-fiction and short fiction until encouraged to write a novel. He has published a number of novels and many short stories. The father of three, he retired to southern Arizona to be near grandchildren when not traveling to the locations of the next novel under construction. He also is involved with operations at Celtic Publications of Arizona.

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A Pirate’s Legacy: The Bones

Copyright 2013 by Sean Patrick O’Mordha

ISBN: 9781301511587

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Chapter 1

Clues, Ciphers, and Tricks

The vibration of the electric engines suddenly decreasing brought the Raven II’s advance on the island to a halt, then silence. A person becomes accustomed to the constant hum of ship’s engines, and when they stop, it’s like walking out of a dark room into the sunlight—jarring. Training binoculars on the wall of vegetation directly ahead, my body flinched when the anchor chair rolled out. It sounded like the clack of a noisy typewriter spewing out a long sentence before the anchor struck the water as an exclamation point. Announcing our arrival wasn’t necessary. I couldn’t see them but knew they were watching through rifle sights., waiting, salivating with expectation. They wouldn’t shoot. Not yet. Tomorrow, after we find the treasure.

My hand inadvertently slid over the butt of the pistol on my hip. Comforting. Reassuring. I chuckled, remembering a remark by a college professor the first day in Archaeology 101.

Dear Professor Lyman. Wish you were here. I mumbled.

Oh, how I wished that crotchety, old battleaxe was here in the real world instead of cloistered in her book and artifact-stuffed closet called an office. Out of spite, I always took a photograph of our discovery next to a large X on a map. Yes, there were some gold bars, coins, and jewels. The bulk of the treasures were historically important relics. That’s why I searched for these caches.

Turning back, I mounted the ladder back up to the galley deck and past the large, round cover where a three-inch gun was mounted. The Navy removed it when they decommissioned the ship. They removed all armament before we purchased it. That stuff would have been in the way of something more practical.

The sun had slipped behind the mountain, turning the high, thin cirrus clouds pastel yellows, pinks, and blues. A sliver of moon, God’s thumbnail, was on the rise. Stars would soon come out of hiding. Leaning back on a lounger set on the expanse of deck in front of the dining room, I cupped hands behind my head to watch. A meteor’s white streak signaled the overture to Act-I of the celestial performance.

Papa? A thin, high voice said.

Turning toward the superstructure, the lights filtering through the dining hall’s polarized glass windows silhouetted a small figure approaching—our firstborn.

Delfín? What time is it?

10:30.

I’m sorry. I must have dozed, I swung my feet so to sit on the long side of the lounge. Let’s tuck you in?

A lot of people might wonder why a ten-year-old still needed tucked in bed by his father or mother but isn’t that what a parent does?

Can I sit with you for a while?

What’s wrong?

I’m scared. There was a slight quiver in his voice.

I brought our son along on this adventure against better judgment because the Captain said, I boarded my first ship when his age. Take the lad along. Time for him to learn; besides, you two need time together.

Cupping a hand on the boy’s cheek, I said, There’s nothing wrong with being afraid. A very natural reaction when facing something new.

Is this how you felt when you went after the first treasure?

No. Everything happened so fast there was no time to really think about it. The scary feelings came afterward.

Will there be trouble tomorrow?

Does that worry you?

I don’t want you or the others hurt.

I moved Delfín to sit between my knees, wrapping arms around and pulling him snugly against my chest. He shivered despite the tropical warmth.

Other people want the treasures, too, and they’ll do whatever they think necessary to get it. Knowing that, we are extra careful. I have always been honest with my children, especially Delfin.

Do you think the Captain will help?

He can do only so much, you know that.

The boy snuggled deeper, allowing me to nuzzle a cheek against his soft hair, remembering a stray conversation some time back.

The recovery of each treasure brings the family one step closer to our destiny, the Captain once explained.

What is that destiny? I asked. He didn’t answer.

Over the years, the Captain had been reasonably forthright answering questions except for this one. What was the old pirate hiding? A twinge in my gut was an unpleasant reminder I’d forgotten to take my heartburn meds. Not high on the list of things to remember until too late. That’s why I routinely carried a roll of antacids and popped a couple in my mouth.

After a time, I lie back, holding my son tight as sleep came, at least to him.

Early on, during the pursuit of a Ph.D. in archaeology, I tried to break some yawning boredom in an introductory class by flippantly asking, When do we learn about handling guns? The lecturer was Dr. Lyman, an austere, humorless fossil and Dean of the department.

Using one of those condescending scowls, she shot back, This is not 1941, and Indiana Jones is a figment of some imbecile’s imagination. This is archaeology, not Hollywood, and X" does not mark the spot.

Archaeology tools are a trowel, brush, and sunscreen, she droned on. I nearly flunk the class the first five minutes of starting my formal education by breaking into laughter. Would have except others joined in. They saw the movie based on our exploits if she hadn’t.

She hadn’t read my book or seen any interviews, otherwise would have known that Concepción, Alejandro, and I were almost killed that first summer. And then there was the skirmish with Italian mafia kidnappers a year later. We’ve continued encounters of the worst kind with our hereditary enemy, the Boggues cartel nipping at our heels. Life became reminiscent of the scene where elder Jones decried, ‘You call this archaeology?’ having narrowly missed being blown up by a bomb and chewed up by a fighter plane’s machine guns. As a result, I carry more than a trowel and brush—a Ruger P89, 9 mm on my hip, and its cousin, an LCP .380 on an ankle. Thanks to an old friend, Capt. Santana, I can light the match for my brother-in-law’s cigar at thirty feet with either. That’s how dangerous archaeology can be—at least the kind we are involved in.

In 1789 the multi-talented co-founder of the United States, Benjamin Franklin, wrote a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy.

Our new Constitution is now established and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.

Ben certainly got that part right. I would add one more certain—ambush—as in the present one awaiting us the moment we recover my ancestor’s treasure on the island off our bow.

During my seven and a half years in college, I recovered a couple of my ancestor’s lesser buried treasures, more for the excitement than the money, although that was nice. They provided funds for this, our most significant recovery. I should have kept my mouth shut because it only alerted the Boggues gang of what I was doing.

Several years back, they attempted to hijack our find during an expedition, resulting in a nasty confrontation. They’ve hounded our heels ever since. The upshot being that I hired a couple Navy SEALs for their diving . . . and combat experience. I also purchased a decommissioned Hamilton-class Coast Guard cutter. It took two years to refit it as a research vessel because there was one treasure I wanted to find in a bad way, the Lillian de Cordoba.

The Lillian was one of two treasure ships headed to Havana. There, it would link up with the rest of the Caribbean treasure fleet before sailing to Spain. In tandem with Hogshead Shaver, my fourteenth great grandfather, the pirate Dolphin, intercepted the ships. The escorts were eliminated, and one treasure ship boarded. The Lillian made a desperate run to reach the military port at Baracoa on Cuba’s southern tip. The Dolphin pursued the galleon until the wind drove her onto rocks off the Cuban coast and sank. At the time, my ancestor felt the ship’s cargo might contain more than gold and silver. So did I based on a discovery my wife made.

Concepción found documents in the subterranean vaults of the Seville Cathedral, indicating that not all its cargo consisted of artifacts rendered into bars and coins. There were priceless Aztec and Mayan relics intact.

For the study and pleasure of our king as a symbol of our great victories over the heathens.

Using the Dolphin’s journal and the separate treasure book, I set a course for recovery, but it was not an easy one. While he clearly laid out sites by latitude and longitude in the smaller treasure book, the Captain’s references to the Lillian were vague—vague as in not at all except for general descriptions like, Off the coast of Cuba.

Required to tarry 400 years since his earthly life ended, discussions with him have been possible. Even when questioned about the Lillian, he goes into a lengthy recitation of how he pursued the huge ship until hidden rocks ripped open her full belly and sank within minutes. I never tire of listening to the story because of the animated way he tells it while entertaining the hope he’d slip up and reveal some before untold information.

Discussions usually take this track. And exactly where would that be? I would ask the Evreux’s ghostly patriarch, who prefers to be addressed as Captain.

Off the coast of Cuba.

Yeah, you’ve said that . . . a lot. Cuba has over 3,500 miles of coastline. Could you be a bit more specific?

Think on it, Francis. Use your mental acuity? You have all the information you need.

That new revelation threw me into a tailspin. If I already had all the information, where was it? He simply looked at me and gave one of those obnoxiously smug smiles.

The Captain is a great teacher. He never condescends to spoon-feeding, only providing anorexic tidbits, a piece of worm on a hook, and expects me to research and reason out the answer.

Another of his annoying quirks, I was christened Francis David. Kids used to tease me to no end about ‘Francis.’ That had been the name of the talking mule in 1950s movies and, like all good things, were resurrected as movie channel re-runs. I chose being called David to avoid the teasing, which worked except for my aunt, grandmother, and the Captain. He uses my first name as a reminder that I was unknowingly named after him. I sometimes wonder if he didn’t have a hand in that. At least he acquiesces to using the Anglicized form of François.

Okay, okay, you and Hogshead attacked the convoy in the Windward Passage, and you chased the Lillian to prevent her from gaining safe harbor at Baracoa. Then it must be along the coast between Santiago and Punta de Maisi. My guess is somewhere near Guantanamo Bay. And it has to be close to shore. It’s a fairly steep drop to the ocean floor in that region, 5,500 feet, more in some places. Crow’s feet appear and deepen as an almost imperceptible smile upturned the corners of his mouth.

I vocalized my thoughts. "The treasure ships were caught in a storm between Jamaica and Haiti and became separated. After re-grouping, the Lillian, another galleon, and several escort ships were missing. According to the treasure fleet Admiral’s log, the ships were ‘feared lost at sea.’ When never heard from again, that became the official declaration.

"I’m guessing the Lillian group had been blown far enough east to believe that the shorter way to Havana was through the Windward Passage. Your log entry said there was a strong southwesterly wind which would have made returning to the original route hard. Also, there was less chance of attack from pirates that way. There were pirates scattered along the western coast of Cuba, the largest group at Trinidad who routinely attacked the treasure fleets. Having only two treasure galleons with a couple smaller ships for protection would have made them prime meat. The only pirate base they were aware of going east was on Tortuga. The Spanish apparently did not know of your base at St. Nicholas. The document Concepcion discovered in Seville lamented the loss of two priests returning with important artifacts they collected.

"As I recall, you chased the Lillian for about three hours before she went aground. Driven by a twenty-five-knot wind, the Lillian’s captain tried to outrun you going before the wind for maximum speed. Perhaps as much as fifteen knots?" I looked at the Captain. He silently raised one eyebrow.

Were there no survivors?

His expressive eyes saddened appreciably. I’m afraid not. She rolled and sank incredibly fast. Those few on deck managed to swim ashore, but there was no beach and the cliffs steep. The waves were high and relentless. Those surviving the sharks were dashed against the rocks. We dared not come close to pick up survivors lest we suffer the same fate. That great loss of life was something we did not relish happen, and it put a tarnish on our success, but such risks were our daily companion.

Would one of the ships we discovered at St. Nicholas be the second treasure ship?

Yes. She was an old ship and not worth trying to repair and was stripped of everything usable, including timbers. Plucked like a chicken. I might add that the French garrison there profited from our success and was most helpful. They used what remained for target practice.

"You picked up survivors from the escorts. Did they or the crew of the galleon not see the Lillian flee east?"

"Some. Mostly they were too busy entertaining Adm. Shaver. My own crew had no notion where we were except off Cuba. Only Henry and I made a record. As for the captured crew, the Admiral put them ashore on the north tip of the Tiburon Peninsula. It was no more than 35 miles to the south. No one reached civilization, something we did not anticipate. We wrongly assumed that they would find passage to Port au Prince. The Spanish made many enemies among the Taino natives in their conquest of the Americas.

So, they ended up in Taino stew pots.

No, no. The Taino were more civilized than that. More than the Spaniards. Those not killed in battle would have become slaves.

What else can you tell me?

It is not my desire to present everything to you on a silver charger.

In those few words and gestures, he added more detail to the account. He was far too aware of the things he would say or do. In his crafty way, the Captain reduced the search area to about sixty-five Nautical Miles of Cuba’s southern coastline. It also meant that the exact location remained for me to excavate.

I re-read his journal carefully from a different perspective and discovered he had inserted clues within the narrative, which could only be revealed by using a decoder. While frustrating and inconvenient, I completely understood the caution. The Captain apparently anticipated that his journal could—and did—fall into the hands of less scrupulous people, namely the Boggues crime family.

Okay, where the heck is the decoder? I asked upon realizing this.

You have always possessed it, Francis, the captain said with that an infuriating smile. He tapped the small treasure book lightly with one finger.

Of course, he disappeared before I could ask. It took me several days of hair-pulling to see the ingenuity. Well, truthfully, it was Delfin who made the discovery. He carries the Captain’s name out of family gratitude, besides which the Captain insisted. Something about ‘tradition.’

Seated in a wing-back chair near the fireplace in our El Hierro home, I was going over the multitude of notes concerning the Lillian. Delfín, a Spanish nickname meaning Dolphin, and the Captain sat huddled at the dining table as they often did. Confined to earth to repent for his crimes committed as a pirate, he missed his own children and grandchildren. That he and the boy share so much in common, more than just a name, the two are very attached.

If you are not familiar with how the Captain came into my life, let me bring you up to speed. The Captain is my fourteenth paternal great grandfather François Evreux, a.k.a. the pirate Dolphin. He is, of course, dead. Has been for 400 years. He was still around because of a couple indiscretions like sinking a French warship with over 600 people aboard and burying an entire village within a mountain. Something like 100 people. Then there was blowing up a Spanish fortress and being responsible for causing the loss of the Lillian with all hands, and well, the list goes on. For that and a few dozen others, he is confined to earth until completing a period of repentance. To accomplish that end, fate or whatever