Devil's Triangle

By L.M. Batstone

Well on his way to becoming a pirate, John King finds a place among the buccaneers, at the captain's side, as cabin boy. John embraces his new duties with enthusiasm, but his new adventurous life is fraught with unforeseen danger, and it seems everything from nature to the unexplained is out-to-get-him. As John fights to stay alive, he soon realizes being a pirate isn't all about adventure.

It's about survival.

Inspired by true events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.M. Batstone
• Release date: Sep 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311593207

L.M. Batstone

L.M. Batstone lives in Surrey, British Columbia with her husband, son, and cat. She studied writing at Thompson Rivers University, in Kamloops, where she earned a degree in journalism. While on maternity leave she wrote her first novel, The Pirate's Apprentice. Then, two years later came Devil's Triangle. Currently, she is working on the next novel in the series, Whydah's End.

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Devil's Triangle

By L.M. Batstone

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either based on historical events, the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or locals is coincidental.

Devil's Triangle

Copyright © 201 5 L.M. Batstone

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without permission.

All rights reserved.

Published by Scallywag Books

Surry, B.C. Canada

First Edition: 201 5

Dedication

To my family, you know to dream is to hope.

Books by L.M. Batstone

The Pirate's Apprentice

Devil's Triangle

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Ch a p ter 1

Ch a pter 2

Cha p ter 3

Cha p ter 4

Chap t er 5

Cha p ter 6

Chap t er 7

Chap t er 8

Chap t er 9

Chap t er 10

Chap t er 11

Chapt e r 12

Chapt e r 13

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my family and friends, thank you for your help and support. I couldn't have done this without you.

To Jessica, thank you for all your help, suggestions and good advice.

Cha p t er 1

Morning came early on the beach . John woke to t he smell s of coffee, burning tobacco , and campfire smoke. He pulled his blanket over his face and willed himself back to sleep , but the thin, moth-eaten wool was useless at keeping out the bright sunshine .

A s he tried to ignore the light penetrating his eyelids , he b ecame increasingly aware of the stirrings of those around him . Nearby, a pirate retched into the sand . The man cursed, coughed, and spat. F arther down the beach , another pirate struggled to hack up a stubborn ball of phlegm lodged deep in his lungs. John rolled onto his side as if he could somehow escape the sound.

Black Sam's voice, intermingled with a group of men laughing and talking in the distance, soon caught John's attention. His eyes snapped open when he realized he was not attending to his duties.

Sitting up, John rubbed sand from the inside corners of his eyes with his fingertips and looked to the empty bed roll where the captain had spent the night. His eyes scanned the beach, looking to see where Black Sam had gone. He saw only the bodies of men littering the sand like dead fish washed ashore, but John knew that the men weren't dead, just dead drunk. There were at least two hundred pirates sleeping on the sand. Some seemed to have dropped where they stood, still gripping a bottle, a mug, or a pistol.

John yawned and stretched. His sleep had been fitful at best. Throughout the night, he had been woken up many times by the drunken revelers as they sang, whooped, fought, yelled, and laughed. The last time he had woken, he remembered noticing that the sky was beginning to lighten.  

At the far end of the beach, a small group of pirates sat around a campfire, drinking coffee. John stood up and checked to see if the rolled-up map was still tucked into the waistband of his breeches. Relieved that it was still there, he set out towards the group.

As he approached the men, John recognized Joseph Rivers, the cook, Captain Black Sam, and Wilson, the dwarf. The rest of the men, he assumed, hailed from the Marianne. John had little to do with her crew as he had only just begun sailing with Black Sam and his men a fortnight ago.

A transient image of his mother's face passed through his mind, as intangible as morning mist. After a brief goodbye, he had left her behind without a second thought, eager to start his adventure on the Sultana. Did she ever ma k e it to Jamaica ? John wondered. Surely, she must be at her sister's by now.

He felt a twinge of guilt as he remembered the look in her eyes when he pointed the stolen pistol at her. In an instant, her expression changed from anger, to shock, to sadness and then finally to fear. The memory evoked an odd mixture of feelings in John. Seeing his mother's fear had at first made him feel powerful, but now he only felt a mixture of guilt and shame for treating her so poorly. If only she hadn't tried to stop him from becoming a pirate, then he wouldn't have had to scare her like that.

He kept these thoughts to himself, of course. He didn't want the pirates to know how he really felt for fear they might think him soft. I suppose I should feel grateful my mother gave me the opportunity to prove my worth to Black Sam , John mused. If she hadn't rushed in to stop him, John wouldn't have pointed the gun at her and Black Sam wouldn't have taken him on as an apprentice.

As John sat down on the sand next to the captain, Joseph Rivers handed him a tin mug half filled with thick, black coffee. John thanked the cook and took an experimental sip of the acidic brew. An uncontrollable grimace took hold of John's face, causing the men to laugh as he struggled to choke the coffee down.

It'll put hair on yer chest, lad, the captain chuckled.

John took another sip, managing not to make a face this time.

Is this the fabled Bloody John I've 'eard so much about? a grisly, hungry-looking pirate asked in a heavily slurred Irish accent. He doesn't look a day older than ten.

Aye, 'tis the very one. An' he's at least that old, Black Sam confirmed.

After all the tales I've 'eard, I thought ye'd be taller an' older, the man said in disbelief, his bloodshot eyes wide with surprise. If ye stood back to back with Wilson here, ye'd be about the same height.

Wilson looked up from his coffee and smiled, showing his scurvy-ravaged gums.

Is that to be yer pirate name, young John? Are ye now to be known as Bloody John? the dwarf asked.

I don't know, John said, feeling bewildered.

If it sticks, jus' go with it, the captain suggested. Why not? It suits ye well enough on account of yer fiery locks an' disposition.

John nodded and smiled into his tin mug as he sipped his coffee. A distorted view of himself stared smugly back at him. The name Bloody John would help me maintain a fearsome pirate reputation , he mused. He knew just what the men were referring to with such a name and it had nothing to do with the color of his hair. The dried blood on the shirt he had brought with him to the beach was a testament of his new name. He reminded himself that he needed to scrub out the stain with sand and water before they returned to the Sultana.

John hadn't always been a violent person. In fact, he was just as shocked as anyone else had been when he stabbed the French captain in the leg with his dagger. He had done it out of desperation, without thinking. He'd do anything for Black Sam. The French captain had a knife to the pirate captain's throat, and John had reacted instinctively.

John reached for the dagger that hung from a strap across his chest and stroked the soft brown leather of its sheath. John couldn't remember exactly how it had all happened. His memory of the attack was now just a blur of thoughts and emotions. The pool of red on the deck and his hands slick and sticky with blood was the most vivid image that had stuck with him.

Black Sam leaned in close to John. Wilson says he speaks an' reads some Spanish, the captain whispered.

John's eyes widened as he glanced at the dwarfish man. But you said I shouldn't trust anyone, he whispered back.

Aye, 'tis true. I remember giving such counsel, but ye won't know what the map says if ye don't get help with the Spanish.

True, John responded. It seemed as though the captain was just as interested in what was on the map as John, even though the man had shown little interest the day before.

I'll ask him to translate it for me, John whispered.

Be sure to do it when thar's no one else about, the captain cautioned.

Aye, aye, John agreed, stealing another glance at Wilson. H ow am I going to go about showing him the map when there's so many men around , he wondered.

John sat with the group for a while, listening to their stories and waiting for a time when Wilson could be caught alone. As the morning wore on and the pirates began spiking their coffee with rum, the stories became more exuberant and the men more competitive.

Kennedy, the hungry-looking man John had thought hailed from the Marianne, was telling a story about how he escaped capture after the British Navy attacked his ship. It seemed that Kennedy and his small crew weren't from the Marianne at all, but had been stranded on Blanquilla Island for over a week.

I tell ye, that Captain Hume, he's a crafty scoundrel. They were waitin' fer us to come 'round the bend as we was lookin' fer a place to land. In the end, I had to jump fer it an' swim t' shore cause they set me ship ablaze. Almost didn't make it, Kennedy said as he spat into the sand.

Black Sam nodded. We'll keep an eye on the seas fer 'em. Where'd ye encounter the bloody rascals?

Jus' off the coast of Venezuela, Kennedy replied. Me an' me men 'ave been waitin' here fer rescue ever since.

Aye, tis' blind luck that we came along and stopped fer a wee bit of respite, Joseph Rivers said as he stood.

Aye, yer welcome to join us on the Sultana. We 'ave need o' seasoned jack tars like yerselves, Captain Black Sam said. He grasped for Kennedy's forearm, expecting the man to jump at the offer.

I thought ye'd never ask, Kennedy said. He grabbed Black Sam's forearm with both hands and gave the captain an enthusiastic joggle.

John turned his attention to Joseph Rivers who had left the group to help at the ground ovens. John's stomach gurgled in anticipation of the feast to come. The meat had been cooking all through the night and was now filling the air with its succulent aroma. Steam rose from the pit as the cooks cleared away the top layer of sand and leaves, exposing the great hunks of steaming roast beef wrapped tightly in banana leaves.

John's stomach rumbled again. Breakfast had been skipped since most of the pirates were still sleeping off their rum. There seemed to be no point for the cooks to prepare a meager breakfast of porridge when there was going to be a roast beef feast so early in the afternoon.

A group of pirates was busy setting up a giant, makeshift table using driftwood and gangplanks from the two ships. When they were done, the men covered the planks with layers of green palm leaves and then dumped bananas, coconuts, and prickly pears over the top. Two large wheels of cheese were set at each end of the table, along with two heaping mounds of sea biscuits. Then, with thick, long, pointed sticks, the men hoisted the dripping packages of roast beef out of the ground oven and placed them carefully on the center of the table.

After the meat was unwrapped, the table was a sight to be seen. John's mouth salivated. Every day for the past month, he had eaten the same salty soup and hard sea biscuits for lunch. Now, the food spread out before him seemed as if it had come from a dream.

By the time the wine, beer, and rum casks were set out, most of the men were awake and ready to eat. The pirates began gathering around the massive table to wait for their portions. There was so much food that John thought each man could come back for extra helpings three times, if he wanted to.

After carving up the roasts with their knives, the cooks handed out hearty portions of the steaming hot, still-bloody meat wrapped inside green banana leaves. John stood and waited for his portion at the back of the line. He passed the liquor casks first and chose to fill his tin mug with red wine. He sniffed at the fermented drink as he shuffled towards the table. It smelled like an old musty cellar, which wasn't very appealing. He dipped his finger in the wine and tasted the drops that rolled along his skin. The wine was tart, with an astringent aftertaste, but it wasn't as harsh on his throat as the