The Brotherhood of the Black Flag

By Ian Nathaniel Cohen

"Cohen delivers a solid, compelling, and briskly paced story that blends adventure and romance within a rich historical setting." -- The BookLife Prize

Thrills, treachery, and high-seas swashbuckling adventure await in the Golden Age of Piracy's final reckoning!

His once-promising naval career in tatters, Michael McNamara leaves the newly-United Kingdom behind in search of a new life. With no other skills but the sword, he joins forces with a pirate turned pirate hunter, determined to rid the Caribbean of the Brotherhood of the Black Flag once and for all.

Eager for a worthy cause to fight for, McNamara pits himself against treacherous seas and battle-hardened buccaneers... and uncovers an international conspiracy that threatens the lives of thousands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Nathaniel Cohen
• Release date: Sep 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370196869

Ian Nathaniel Cohen

Ian Nathaniel Cohen is a native of Miami, Florida, where he grew up immersing himself in swashbuckler literature and film. He graduated from the University of Central Florida in 2003 with a BA in Radio/Television Production and a Minor's Certificate in Applied Computer Science. He also received his MA in Asian Studies from Florida International University in 2006, where he teaches the course Asia Through Film as an adjunct lecturer, in addition to working in IT for the Government Publishing Office. In 2010, his essay "Heroes & Villains of the East", analyzing the evolving depiction of the Japanese in Chinese and Hong Kong martial arts cinema, was published in FIU's Japan Studies Journal. He also writes a guest blog, the INCspotlight, on the website Channel Awesome, reviewing classic films, comic books, and video games.

Book preview

THE

BROTHERHOOD

OF THE

BLACK FLAG

By

Ian Nathaniel Cohen

Cover Art By

Luke Reznor

Published by Ian Nathaniel Cohen at SmashWords

THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLACK FLAG

Copyright © 2017 by Ian Nathaniel Cohen.

All rights are reserved to the author. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Luke Reznor. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to all of my shipmates from Semester at Sea’s Fall 2000 voyage, with whom I shared real adventures on the high seas around the world.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1: Saying Goodbye

Chapter 2: Southern Cross

Chapter 3: Kingston Town

Chapter 4: Dream Weaver

Chapter 5: A Man You Don’t Meet Every Day

Chapter 6: Ship of the Line

Chapter 7: Setting Sail

Chapter 8: The Captain’s Table

Chapter 9: Health to the Company

Chapter 10: Roam

Chapter 11: The Memory of the Dead

Chapter 12: For Broadside, For Broadside

Chapter 13: Cap’n’s at the Helm

Chapter 14: Catch the Wind

Chapter 15: True Colors

Chapter 16: Determination

Chapter 17: The Storm Begins

Chapter 18: In Custody

Chapter 19: Who Wants to Live Forever

Chapter 20: Fighting Through the Darkness

Chapter 21: Swords Crossed

Chapter 22: The Parting Glass

Epilogue

Afterword & Acknowledgments

Glossary of Historical Terms and Persons

FOREWORD

I don’t remember when I officially began working on this story, but it’s one that I’ve wanted to tell, in one form or another, for a number of years, and the planning and plotting began long before I ever wrote a single word. The plot has evolved and matured over time - or as the inimitable Professor Tolkien would say, the tale grew in the telling - to the point where it’s a very different novel to the one I originally set out to write (and very much for the better). However, none of it would have been possible without a large number of people getting my back.

I’m a stickler for accuracy, and I contacted a lot of people with all sorts of questions to make sure I had as many facts straight as possible, from nautical and fencing terms of the day to cuisine and fashion. Naturally, as with all historical adventure fiction, there’s dramatic license at work here, and there is only so much detail and historical information one can include in the narrative without slowing down the pacing. However, I did aim for historical accuracy and context as often as possible, and there are many people I have to thank for sending information to a random person e-mailing them from out of nowhere, sometimes from another continent, and spamming message boards asking for all manner of obscure details I wasn’t able to find in the books and articles I had access to at the time I was writing this. In order to not spoil any surprises of what’s to come, I will be thanking each of you at the end of the book in a special acknowledgment section.

In the meantime, I have some more personal acknowledgments I want to make here:

To my family for introducing me to, encouraging, and indulging a love of historical adventure fiction through literature and cinema, and for their honest feedback on this story.

To my editor, Sheryl Lee, as well as to an amazing team of beta readers and friendly ears - Amanda Mahaffey, Phillip Martin, Amanda Otremba, Kristin Rausch, Ben Schultz, and Samara Secor - for their proofreading, feedback, and recommendations, all of which helped to make a better novel in the end. I also want to thank them and many others for their never-ending support and encouragement as I chipped away at this project over the years until it became something presentable and readable, let alone something I think I can actually be proud of.

To my cover artist and brother I never had, Luke Reznor, for always having my back.

To Fred Cavens, Bob Anderson, and F. Braun McAsh, the film and television sword fight choreographers whose work inspired my fascination with fencing, swordsmanship, and fight choreography, and even by extent with mythology and folklore, fantasy, and historical adventure fiction and cinema, where I could read about and watch swordfights in abundance. Also, to my fencing instructor, Steve LaRusso, and to my former comrades in arms of Historic Entertainment (now known as the Urban Ronin stunt team), who taught me a great deal about fencing, swordsmanship, and fight choreography.

To Klaus Badelt, The Chieftains, John Debney, Ilan Eshkeri, Jerry Goldsmith, Erich Wolfgang Korngold, Alfred Newman, John Williams, Hans Zimmer, and the Yale Glee Club for their musical inspiration.

To my fellow writers at the Shrine to Ghaleon for creating a welcoming and constructing environment where I could improve as a writer, back when I was using fanfiction as a training ground for my writing.

To all the INCspotlight readers out there who have indulged my sharing my love for classic cinema, including the films that inspired this book, and to Channel Awesome for giving the INCspotlight a home. I also want to thank the reviewers of Channel Awesome and Chez Apocalypse, past and present, for making me a more conscientious writer.

For your reference, I have included historical notes and a glossary of terms at the end of the book that includes fencing, fashion, and nautical terminology (rather than take the time within the narrative itself to explain them, or at least explain them in pace-killing detail).

Also, I feel the need to list a few disclaimers. The demographics of the navy, pirate, and privateer ships depicted in this story are derived from historical research, and are not intended as a commentary or slur against any race or nationality. On a similar note, the events of this story are in no way an allegory or commentary on any specific contemporary political figures, movements, or ideologies, and I would very much appreciate it if nobody uses them as such. Finally, this book contains numerous instances of violence, adult language, and sexual content, and parents who are concerned about what their own children read are advised to exercise discretion.

And now I invite you to journey back to the days, to quote the 1942 movie The Black Swan, when villainy wore a Sash, and the only political creed in the world was - Love, Gold, and Adventure.

CHAPTER ONE: SAYING GOODBYE

En garde!

Michael McNamara, assistant smallsword instructor at Fredrick Cavendish’s Salle des Armes, moved fluidly from the position of attention to the en garde stance: his knees bent just enough to balance himself, his left heel in perpendicular line with his right. Facing him was Giles Prescott, one of his few remaining students, and McNamara smiled slightly with approval at the youth’s impeccable form.

Cavendish himself, who was supervising the match, turned towards McNamara, then towards Giles. Fencers ready?

Ready, McNamara replied, his smile broadening in eager anticipation of the bout to come. Come on, Giles, come at me with everything you’ve got. We’ll not be crossing swords after today, so let’s make this final bout a good one.

Ready, Giles repeated, the boy’s genteel Oxford accent contrasting sharply with McNamara’s Scottish lilt.

Fence! Cavendish commanded.

No sooner had the command been given than Giles cut at McNamara three times with his blunt, forming a perfect triangle in the process as he aimed at both flanks and then the head. The boy was quick, but McNamara rapidly parried, bringing his sword arm down and up, across his body, to block the cut to his head. He twisted his arm downwards to his left, binding Giles’s blade and forcing his student’s defenses wide open for a quick hit to the chest.

One to McNamara, Cavendish announced.

And after only three moves too, McNamara chided. I’ve warned you before, Giles, you’re too over-eager. You have to think about defense. If this had been a real fight, I would have killed you by now.

But this is the last time I shall ever get to fence with you! Giles protested, sounding to McNamara more like a petulant child than the seventeen-year-old youth he actually was. I have to try to hit you at least once before you leave!

You won’t do it if you don’t remember to maintain a good defense, McNamara said. Now try again. Ready?   

The bout continued, and McNamara was pleased to see that this time, Giles kept a tighter defense and a less reckless offense. Experience won out though and eventually McNamara had him in a croisé, forcing Giles’s blade upwards and leaving him open to take a second hit.

Better, McNamara said encouragingly. You held me off for quite a while.

Giles glared at McNamara. I will do more than hold you off this time. This time I shall...

Show us, Mr. Prescott, rather than saying it, Cavendish snapped. And show some respect to Mr. McNamara. This may be his last day with us, but he is still your instructor.

Yes, sir, Giles said humbly. My apologies, Mr. McNamara. When you are ready.

Ready, McNamara replied, hoping the boy would indeed make good on his boast.

Again master and student clashed. Giles Prescott was among the best of his students, but McNamara had an advantage that his student did not – almost half a lifetime of experience fighting against Spanish armies and pirate crews during his days in the Royal Navy. His battle-honed reflexes gave him an edge his student could not overcome, try as he might, and Giles groaned as he felt McNamara’s blunt touch him one final time.

The victory is yours, Mr. McNamara, Cavendish declared. My congratulations to the both of you on a well-fought bout.

The fencers saluted Cavendish and then each other. Prescott shook McNamara’s hand, his face flushed with exhaustion after such an intensive match. You win again, Mr. McNamara. For a moment, I had thought the bout might be mine.

That’s because you were thinking too hard about hitting me and not hard enough about not getting hit yourself, McNamara said, panting for breath as he brushed aside a stray lock of his long auburn hair. My task as your instructor hasn’t been to teach you how to kill someone, Giles. It was to teach you to defend yourself should the need to do so arise. In a real duel, the only way to win is to survive, and you won’t if you only think about attacking. Will you remember that?

I will, sir, Giles said gloomily. McNamara regretted that he would not get to observe the boy’s development, nor that of any of the other students. It was one of many regrets he had about his dismissal from the salle.

Gentlemen! Cavendish announced, shaking McNamara out of his brooding. A moment, if you please, before we end for the day!

The half-dozen fencing students of the school instantly stood at attention in their places.

Cavendish placed an arm around McNamara’s shoulder. "Today is the last day that Michael McNamara, our assistant instructor, will be with us, as he soon shall be leaving England for Kingston. Michael, you have been a valuable part of our school this past year, and a good friend to me. And I know that all of our students have learned a great deal under your tutelage. So on behalf of all of us, I want to wish you all the best in your new life in Jamaica, and to thank you for all your hard work and dedication to my salle."

The students gave McNamara a stirring round of applause, and crowded around him to shake his hand and wish him well on his travels. McNamara was quite touched by their display of esteem and respect, neither of which he’d been previously aware he had earned from them. As an instructor, he had taken few opportunities to befriend any of the young men he taught, in case camaraderie would lead to lax discipline. That now seemed to him a mistake on his part.

After the students left for the day, McNamara then tended to his usual tasks that came with his position as an assistant instructor: sweeping the floor of the fencing room, polishing the practice swords, and whatever else he could do to keep the place looking as pristine as possible.

When his work was done he stood in the center of the room, his blue eyes taking in every detail of the salle to which he had devoted the past year of his life. He studied the dark wood of the newly polished floors where he’d taught and sparred with countless students, the arms and banners adorning the milky-white walls, and the Cavendish family crest above the door. This place had been a good home to him at a time when he had no idea what to do with himself after his expulsion from the Royal Navy, ending the promising military career he’d dreamed of as a boy.

Now, pacing about the room, he wondered, not for the first time, if he was making a mistake by leaving England altogether. After all, he reasoned, the still-young United Kingdom of 1721 was a place where men were wise to learn the use of arms. He had already fought in two wars against Spain, and he had every reason to believe another conflict awaited in the not-too-distant future, either with Spain or some other power. The Caribbean pirates, many of whom were former privateers who were no longer needed in peacetime, threatened the new shipping routes the British had won in the War of the Spanish Succession. McNamara had overheard scraps of gossip from his students regarding the British campaign against piracy, their efforts spearheaded by Woodes Rogers, in order to put an end to the Brotherhood of the Black Flag once and for all.

He did not keep himself as informed about politics and current happenings as much as he knew he ought to. Nevertheless, he was aware that for King George Ludwig of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and the first of the Hanoverian line, the head that wore a crown lay most uneasy. Not only was he already disliked for his German origins, but the British Empire was in the midst of a severe economic decline, a result of the disastrous South Sea crisis. Although the king had not been responsible for the crisis or the economic fiasco which followed, it made the unpopular monarch all the more hated by his subjects. And then, of course, there were the Jacobite rebels who sought to restore the Stuart line of kings, deposed during the Glorious Revolution.

McNamara had hoped at the time he’d started his position here that he’d found the perfect new career as an arms instructor after the premature end to his career in the navy. More importantly, he had come to hold Cavendish himself in high regard this past year. Like McNamara, Cavendish was also a former officer, a younger son who would not inherit and had to make his own way in the world, finding it in the army. Unable to afford to purchase rank beyond captain, he had sold his commission in disgust and used some of the money to establish his fencing school. McNamara felt a lump in his throat thinking about how they might never see each other again after today.

But it wasn’t up to him, nor had it been Cavendish’s choice. It was simply a matter of too many rival fencing schools and not enough students. There were no regulations as to who could establish his own salle des armes, or any credentials required in order to do so, and the end result was an overabundance of fencing instructors throughout England and only so many students to go around. Many such students preferred to be taught by the more popular French instructors. The salle had been struggling for some time as a result, steadily losing students, and Cavendish could not afford to pay him anymore. Either McNamara had to go or the salle would close its doors. At least the fencing master had been kind enough to write to some of his colleagues to see if they could take McNamara on as an assistant instructor before deciding to dismiss McNamara, but all of them were in the same dire financial straits.

As he idly wandered around the salle, he was shaken out of his thoughts by Cavendish approaching him. The fencing master sighed as he clapped McNamara on the shoulder. I am so very sorry, Michael. I wish there was something I could do.

As do I, Mr. Cavendish, McNamara replied gently. But the fault is not your own. It’s simply the nature of the times we live in.

Thank you for that. Will any of your family be meeting you in Bristol before you leave?

McNamara stiffened. I doubt it. Grudges seem to linger in my family.

Grudges? On account of what?

The Acts of Union, McNamara muttered. My father and brothers had signed petitions and participated in the protests against the Acts, and they were furious with me afterwards for refusing to give up on my ambition of becoming a British naval officer.

Cavendish frowned, reminding McNamara of his now-former employer’s distaste for politics. How did you persuade your father to change his mind?

I didn’t, really. When I was young, Father had promised he would write my letter of service when I was old enough. After the Acts were passed, I forced his hand by holding him to his promise. The entire family hated me for it, decrying it as an underhanded tactic. Bad enough, they said, to want to join the navy of the country that had subjugated our own, but by ‘disrespectfully’ demanding that he keep his word…none of them have ever forgiven me for it. They’ve never responded to a single letter I’ve sent them these past fourteen years. Half of my life. I might as well be dead to them.

Politics, Cavendish spat. I do hope you and your family can reconcile at some point. Rancor between family is a terrible thing, especially over something as petty as politics.

We’ll see, McNamara said. I sent one last letter stating my intentions and travel plans. Whether they decide to act upon it is up to them. And now, Mr. Cavendish, I think it’s time I was on my way. Goodbye, my friend, and thank you for everything.

Cavendish embraced McNamara. God be with you, Michael. You deserve whatever successes are sure to come your way. Write to me from Kingston. I look forward to hearing from you on how you are getting on.

I shall. Please do the same once I’ve settled in someplace.

They shook hands one final time, and Michael McNamara took his leave.

CHAPTER TWO: SOUTHERN CROSS

Four days later, Michael McNamara grinned as he stared out the window of his hired coach and took in the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Bristol, England’s most vital port city. A center of maritime activity since before the Romans ever came to the shores of Britain, as well as the birthplace of the notorious Edward Blackbeard Teach, Bristol was a bustling city with a population of over twenty thousand people. The harbor itself consisted of two hundred and sixty-two acres of dockland, in addition to homes, shops, public houses, and taverns. Warehouses were stuffed with a wide variety of valuable merchandise such as sugar, tobacco, rum, molasses, cloth, and cocoa.

The coach made its way down narrow streets, passing by all sorts of people: vendors, laborers, grifters, beggars, soldiers, whores, drunkards, and other residents of Bristol going about their daily activities. McNamara took pleasure in observing everything around him as the coach headed towards the docks. The exhilaration of setting forth on a new adventure had swept away the recurring gloom he felt about leaving Cavendish’s salle and his lack of specific future prospects - for the moment, at least.

The pleasure of seeing Bristol once again also cheered him. His grin broadened at the familiar sights of everyday life in this city. He watched children playing ball and dueling with wooden swords in the streets. He saw lovers discreetly sharing glances and people enjoying conversation or sitting silently, taking pleasure in each other’s company. I don’t know what else I’ll miss about England, he thought, but I will miss Bristol for certain.

Every important decision in his life, he reckoned, had revolved around Bristol in some manner. He recalled the thrill of embarking on his very first sea voyage, sailing from Bristol to Portsmouth in 1707 to join the British Royal Navy at the age of fourteen. The War of the Spanish Succession had been raging for six years by this point, and ever since hearing of the English victory at Vigo Bay, McNamara had dreamed of becoming an officer in the navy. His childhood thoughts had been consumed with setting sail for honor and glory and capturing treasure fleets just as his childhood hero Sir George Rooke had done. The letter he’d forced his father to write had allowed him to become a volunteer-per-order, meaning he would be trained as an officer and receive a midshipman’s pay. However, the quarrel that had ensued, in which the rest of the family sided against McNamara soured his initial joy, and he had made his way to Bristol alone. Come to think of it, all the times I’ve had to start my life anew, I’ve been alone, he thought morosely.

McNamara’s memories continued to drift towards the past, recalling his first bitter tastes of warfare. There was the disastrous Battle of Toulon, followed shortly afterwards by his narrow escape on board HMS Royal Oak from a French ambush near Lizard Point. There had been victories, of course – Minorca, Cape Passaro, Vigo, and Pontevedre – but for McNamara, these were only slightly sweeter to recall. The roaring of guns, the scraping of blade against bloody blade, and the screams of the dying all sounded the same to McNamara, regardless of which side was triumphant. Only the Battle of Cape Passaro, when a Spanish armada once again fell before the might of British warships, had made him feel any sense of genuine triumph.

Given McNamara’s early disillusionments with the so-called glory of war, he had taken being drummed out of the navy surprisingly well, by his own estimation. He had been far more devastated by the loss of a clear purpose in life, and the way old friends and acquaintances had shunned him – word of his expulsion had somehow reached them, but not the reason for it, and they had not been interested in explanations. Not knowing where else to go, he had returned to Bristol, scratching out a living giving private fencing lessons to naval officers who were not too particular about who they learned from. One of them had gotten word of an opening for an assistant fencing instructor at Cavendish’s salle in Bath, and recommended to McNamara that he apply for the position.

Now he was back in Bristol, once again out of work, once again not knowing what to do with the rest of his life, and worst of all, once again alone. All he had now was a vague notion that his chance for a new life lay overseas.

As the coach neared the harbor McNamara inhaled the familiar smell of sea salt and tar and he found it oddly refreshing. His brooding thoughts once again melted away at the sights, sounds, and smell of a ship. This ship that represented new adventure, new promise. He decided on the spur of the moment that he’d had enough of seeing Bristol from a window. The coach now felt too confining for him, and he stuck his head out the window.

Let me off here, he called out to the coachman. I’ll walk the rest of the way.

As McNamara disembarked from the coach he wrapped his traveling cloak tighter around him to keep out the February chill, adjusting the sword at his side so it would not entangle itself. The sword was a colichemarde, a variation of the smallsword that had replaced the rapier in recent years as the fashionable sword to bear. Its blade was thirty-two inches long, the forte of which was wider and stronger than that of the standard smallsword, narrowing at the debole. The balance of the sword made it ideal for rapid parries and thrusts, while the sturdier forte allowed it to withstand attack from heavy blades. The colichemarde itself was beginning to go out of style, but McNamara deemed its qualities and advantages more important than fashion.

After paying the driver, McNamara slung his satchel over his shoulder, grunting slightly under its weight. He hadn’t thought he’d brought all that much with him – just several changes of clothes, including more formal wear should he require it, some bottles of water, and a few random souvenirs from his time in the navy. To keep himself occupied he’d brought along a deck of cards and a few books. Among the latter were several fencing manuals by Sir William Hope, Aphra Behn’s Oroonko, a battered copy of John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Pierre Motteaux’s translation of Cervantes’s Don Quixote, and several books by Daniel Defoe: Robinson Crusoe, Captain Singleton, and Memoirs of a Cavalier. The books added substantial weight to his satchel, but he enjoyed reading when he could, and he hadn’t done as much of it lately as he liked. A long ocean voyage seemed as good a time as any to get caught up, in case there were no card players aboard. Games of cards had always been among McNamara’s favorite pastimes, especially on long sea voyages when there was little to do.

McNamara wandered across the docks, passing several large ships, until he found the one he was looking for - the Southern Cross. It wouldn’t depart until tomorrow morning, but he wanted to get a good look at the ship he’d be spending the next two months aboard. A husky man in a brown leather coat paced across the deck barking orders to the crew as they loaded cargo and scoured the decks, and McNamara wondered whether this was the captain, Richard Fillion, or perhaps his quartermaster.

He lingered for a few moments before continuing on his way. Tomorrow’s impending departure was making him nostalgic for the days he’d first lived in Bristol, where he’d kept quarters when not posted to a ship. A grin slowly materialized as McNamara passed by the various public houses and inns where he’d spent countless evenings drinking and playing cards late into the night with friends, keeping company with various young ladies before making their way to someplace more discreet, or toasting fallen comrades in the company of fellow officers. Those had been happy times. Perhaps the happiest he’d ever been in his life.

His grin broadened as