Ghost Hunting

By Gabriele Dadò

Caribbean, 1765. Captain Edwards, at his first command, is tasked with a search and rescue mission to salvage the seventy-four gun ship-of-the-line Spartan, mysteriously gone missing. But to do so he has to expose a plot involving the most powerful men in America and measure himself against old ghosts of the past he thought buried forever, in a furious manhunt with the pirate that killed his father and now threatens the southern colonies and the life of the only woman he loves.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabriele Dadò
• Release date: Apr 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9788835805427

Book preview

Berryman

Index

Index

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Epilogue

Caribbean Sea Map

HMS Black hole

HMS Spartan

Chapter I

The bell beat midnight. Captain William Abrahams stared at the tiny light, flickering through the lens of his telescope. For a second it seemed like disappearing, but then again it flashed. That had to be the lighthouse, still several miles away. Abrahams relaxed. He was not sure the longitude he had calculated a few hours before was entirely correct. An error of even just one degree, at that latitude, would mean his ship was off course by sixty miles. He was certain enough of his latitude, having passed Grand Bahama at daylight, but the longitude was always a problem. He had on board one of the few, extremely expensive Thacker clocks, manufactured in London. The precious instrument, contained into an airtight glass case, was among the most precise timepieces of that time. And yet, even that could lose up to six seconds per day. An error of six seconds accumulated daily for forty days, the average time it took a ship to sail from England to the Caribbean, meant four minutes variance at the end of the trip. Depending on the latitude, four minutes, could mean up to sixty-eight miles off course. Despite the airtight case, the clock was affected by the temperature variations and, as Abrahams’ seventy-four sailed toward the tropical seas, the metals inside the instrument expanded, altering the length of the seconds. Yet, the captain’s calculations had proven to be correct. His ship had kept a steady speed through the entire voyage and, as expected, she was still miles away from the eastern coast of Florida.

Abrahams estimated they would have sighted the Florida Keys after dawn, then he would have ordered to steer for south-east by east, to enter the Gulf of Mexico.

- Sir.

Abrahams turned toward the Lieutenant of the watch, standing right behind him, in his dark uniform and with the bicorn hat respectfully kept under his armpit.

- Should I place men to the fathom, Sir?

- No, Mr Andrews. The coast is still far off the larboard bow. Please be so kind to inform the helmsman to correct by one point south.

- Aye, Sir.

Andrews walked away and the captain remained alone on the forecastle, staring at the black sea right in front of him. Above his head, the massive canvas sails pushed the HMS Spartan forward at seven and a half knots speed. The seventy-four gun ports were closed and the heavy twenty-four and eighteen pounders rested in the gun decks, where most of the three-hundred and ninety-seven souls that made up the crew slept in their hammocks. The night watch, reduced to two-thirds of its original number due to the scarcity of hands in the British ports, was quiet on deck, ready to intervene in case the sails needed trim or an emergency arose. Abrahams could smell the smoke of a pipe coming from the weather deck, were two lads were playing cards in the darkness. He sensed the hull rolling slightly as the bow changed its angle in the water, making for one point south.

The full moon appeared for one second from the black clouds, projecting a silver ray over the sea. It was just for a few seconds, before more clouds obscured the nocturne star again, yet, in those few seconds of feeble light, something caught Abrahams’ attention. He turned his stare to the right, off the starboard bow, where he could swear he had seen something shine. Maybe it was just an impression, maybe it was wrong, and then he heard it. Creak of the timber and metal, a whispered swear, coming from the sea.

He was about to give an order, when all of a sudden he felt the deck under his feet rise. He fought to keep his balance, as the bow of his ship rose higher and higher, and the muffled roar of an invisible sand monster swallowing his ship filled his ears.

- Mr Andrews! Let fly!

- Let fly!

Men ran to their stations and, in less than ten seconds, the roar of the sand was overwhelmed by the thumps of the sails beating furiously in the wind, hammering against masts and yards.

- Furl sails!

Abraham ran to the bulwark and looked down. The bow of the Spartan lay in the sand and he could see the hull emerging from the water, well above the waterline.

- All hands on deck!

In that moment, he remembered about the creak he had heard not even a minute before. It was then that the hell unleashed its demons on his ship.

At least two dozens men climbed the starboard side in unison, jumping on the weather quarterdeck. They were all armed, they were all screaming.

Abrahams’ men stood no chance. He watched them being swept away by that ferocious horde, he saw his lads, his officers, his friends fall, madly cut down by murderous ferocity.

Instinctively, he took a step back. He was unarmed, he left all of his expensive weapons in his day cabin and all he could find, at a quick glance, was a thick belay pin. He grasped it and gathered all his courage.

- All hands! All hands on deck! Royal Marines!

He was not even able to hear his own voice, over the roar of the flying sails and the screams of dozens of men. Gunfire broke somewhere amidships; he could see a squad of Marines gathered below, in the first gun deck. He heard their muskets crackle, he saw the shades of the attackers chasing his crew who were desperately seeking for shelter.

More attackers climbed over the port side, and still more emerged above the taffrail. Some were bare chested, others wore loose dirty shirts, all of them were barefoot. They carried cutlasses, axes and pistols, they screamed as Abrahams had never heard a human scream before.

Grenades were thrown in the hatches to the first gun deck, turning the squad of marines into a bloody mess of disfigured bodies.

But there was no time to watch that carnage, for the first pirate was right in front of him, a few paces away and he was looking right into his eyes.

The captain saw the blade of the man’s cutlass swing, he heard the hiss of the edge cutting the air, and without any command from his brain, his right arm went up, carrying the pin towards the sword. He felt the force of the blow passing from the timber all the way to his shoulder, the two weapons came apart and the pirate arched his back preparing for the next swing.

Abrahams’ reach was too short compared to that of the enemy’s blade, there was no way he could get through his guard without at least a wound.

He parried another direct blow, he didn’t even breathe, he threw himself into his opponent’s legs. The pirate went down, Abrahams raised the pin, still safe in his hands. Before the man could react he had loaded all of his strength in his back muscles and lowered the pin. He could feel the heavy wooden head smashing down through the skull and the softer brain matter, he raised his weapon and hit again, and again, until he found himself in a pool of dark blood. More blood had splattered his elegant navy uniform and more was on his face. He could feel the sticky liquid dripping off the tip of his nose. The smell was disgusting.

He fought against the retch, picked up his enemy’s cutlass and stood up. The situation on the quarterdeck was calm now, all his man were dead or had surrendered, but he could still hear the screams coming from down below, where the pirates were murdering the rest of the crew in their sleep.

- It’s over, Capitaine, please yield your sword.

Abrahams found himself looking into the black barrel of a pistol, firmly held by a massive, bearded man. In the man’s right hand, a long, heavy sword shone of red reflections in the moonlight.

- Who are you?

- Capitaine Françoise de Mont Blanc, monsieur. – The pirate sarcastically bowed. – Your sword now, if you please.

- You’ll face the gallows… - the click of the gun being cocked cut Abrahams’ words.

He dropped the cutlass.

- Merci bocoup.

Mont Blanc turned his stare aft, where his man had gathered the few survivors of Abrahams’ crew.

- Quartermaster!

- Sir!

- The flag.

An axe blow cut the halyard and the Blue Ensign plumped down, swirling in the wind. After a few seconds, a black flag, torn by a white skull pierced by a sword was raised aloft. It was much smaller than the Navy Ensign but it stood triumphant on top of the flagpole.

- Shall I lock the survivors below, Sir?

Mont Blanc smiled. – There are no survivors.

- Captain?

- Enlist those who want to serve under my command, then kill the others. Officers included.

- What about the ransom? We could claim up to £300 for an officer.

- I will pay you the ransom for every officer killed myself. But this ship will have no survivors. This is a ghost ship.

Abrahams was shaking. He was no longer able to move, his legs and arms felt like lead.

- Throw the bodies overboard, then furl sails and prepare to tow the anchors astern. We’re sailing at dawn. – He turned again toward Abrahams. – Pleasure to meet you, Captain. – He pulled the trigger.

Chapter II

The hand struck one minute and twenty-four seconds. Before he could raise his stare from the watch, Gabriel Edwards felt the poop deck shake beneath his feet, he perceived the vibe spreading throughout the ship before his ears were filled with the heavy thunder of the thirty-six and twenty-four pounders. The small swells were swept flat by the power of the guns, as the terrible rumbles of the iron balls travelling at five hundred yards per second annihilated everything standing on their pathway.

From his high position, Edwards was able to catch a glimpse of the floating target exploding into fragments, before the smoke got too thick and obscured his sight completely, wrapping his ship in a dense, stinking fog.

- One minute and twenty-four seconds, Sir! – Matthew Thomas, his young third officer stood in the middle of the main deck, among the gunners who were now still, all looking astern, towards their Captain. They all knew they did a terrific job and yet, dozens of eyes stared at Edwards, almost in fear, anxious for the verdict.

He kept them waiting for another long second. This was his crew; some men had sailed with him since he was a boy. They all admired him and respected him. And he kept them waiting, looking at each single face, every expression, every move. Then he smiled.

- Nicely done, gentlemen. You all earned a double ration of rum tonight! Dismiss.

He turned away and walked aft, as the crew cheered him. He stopped by the taffrail and contemplated for a few second the wake his Black hole had left behind her, like a scar on the back of the ocean. The sun was setting off the starboard bow and the white foam glowed with the orange reflection of the last daylight.

Edwards rested his hand on the solid timber of his ship, his first command. She was an old lady, far from a conventional frigate or ship-of-the-line. He had taken her, transformed her, made her his lover. He had learned how fast and secure an older lady can be when properly manned. The heavily built, 147-foot hull was made of solid oak, the pine masts stretched up to 152 feet, towering above the shining white decks. Thirty gun ports hosted the artillery of the ship. Edwards had the gun decks lowered, so that the Black hole could carry heavier guns than a ship of her size, without compromising the stability. The higher than normal forecastle hosted two experimental one-hundred-and-ten pounder guns, the most powerful weapons ever created by a man. Their twenty-foot barrel could shoot a round missile at over four thousand yards, more than twice the range of the largest guns. The white canvas sails caught the fresh evening breeze and the Black hole rode the long Atlantic waves, heading south-west towards the Caribbean. Her mission was simple: discover the fate of the escort ship to the cotton convoy, expected to reach Florida in the beginning of June. Yet, the seventy-four gun ship Spartan had never reached her destination. It was late September by now, the season was almost over and the ships needed to sail for England, with or without an escort. Some of them already did; their owners had decided to risk and take the chance to be the first to unload their cargo in Chatam, making a huge profit. None of them had ever reached home. The trade had stopped dead, the rest of the merchants were too afraid to set sails and in the West Indies there was not a ship powerful enough to be hired as an escort. Edwards’ man o’war was, to his knowledge, the most powerful naval vessel in the Caribbean and with her he was supposed to find a third rate ship-of-the-line gone missing.

There were no records of any accident, no witnesses, no survivors. The Spartan had simply vanished and he was supposed to search the entire Caribbean Sea to find her.

Edwards took a deep breath, inhaling the evening sea air. A small archipelago, far on the horizon, appeared like a grey spot on the surface of the sea.

The ship’s bell beat eight rings.

- Supper is served, Sir.

- Thank you, Will. – Edwards smiled to his steward, who followed him down on the main deck and aft, into the great cabin.

His officer stood as he stepped in, making the cutlery jingle on the table.

- Please, stay seated, gentlemen.

Edwards took his seat at the head of the table.

- Wine anyone?

- We could not demand for better, Sir.

- Of course not, Bill. – Edwards smiled to his first lieutenant, Mr Howard, a heavyset man in his late thirties. He poured him a rather abundant dose of Madeira.

The steward walked into the room bringing the tray with roasted mutton and peas, which he placed in the centre of the table.

- Let me guess: sheep and peas?

- Aye, Sir.

- Lovely. You’ve been serving me my favourite dish for the eighteenth day in a row, Will. I could not ask for a better steward than you.

- My apologies, Sir.

- Cut the apologies. Wine?

- Sir?

- You heard me, Will.

- Very gladly, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

- We should sail fast enough to make it to the Keys by dawn. – Said Thomas, slicing some meat.

- And come about to head north. – Added Edwards.

- How long do you think it will take us to get to Saint Petersburg, Sir?

- Two days, maybe less.

- Thank goodness. I started feeling seasick. – Joked MacDonald, the second lieutenant. He was about the same age of Edwards, but his unshaven face made him look at least ten years older. He smiled, pouring himself some wine.

- Already? You should have joined the army, my dear Andrew.

- Aye, the army. – MacDonald grunted, sipping the wine. – And where else would I have had the chance to get myself hammered every night with some Madeira?

The comment caused the whole table to burst out into laughter.

- Let me tell you, Sir. – The Lieutenant continued in his thick, Scottish accent – As long as you are going to keep your ship supplied with quality alcohol, I will be happy to serve you whatever crazy endeavour you will undertake. – He raised his glass to Edwards – For Christ’s sake, I’ll follow you to the gates of hell!

- To the gates of hell then. – Edwards raised the glass to call the toast.

The whole table imitated them and drank.

They did not yet know that the gates of hell were exactly where they were headed.

Saint Petersburg was a gorgeous town. It was built on the western coast of Florida, protected by the Atlantic winds from the east and from the tropical storms by a wide lagoon where its port was built. There, roughly one hundred vessels lay at anchor, loaded with fine cotton destined to the European markets. Most of the southern trade made its profit out of cotton, and the plantation fields stretched as far as eye could see towards the north and towards the border with the Spanish possessions. Some of the older buildings were built in Spanish style, two or three storeys tall, decorated by tiny sets of columns and enclosing beautiful private gardens. The newest, more in colonial style, were pretty similar to one another: white wooden or brick buildings, two storeys tall. They made up the core of the city and came apart in the main square, where the old Spanish mission and the Governor’s palace rose well above the private houses. Every pier and every quay was occupied by the ships of the richest merchants, while the rest of the convoy was anchored across the whole lagoon, guarded by a fort, built a century before by the Spanish settlers.

The