Dead Man's Tale

By Justin Hyde

In Salem, someone has discovered that the Peabody Essex museum has hidden away one of its most valued maritime artifacts—the silver-plated skull of Blackbeard. A cursed relic that could potentially hold the secret to the word’s ultimate evil. Fortunately however, the museum curator has taken steps to ensure that that evil never resurfaces. But at the cost of his own life.

Now, in order to find the relic before it is too late, Professor Cameron Skull and the team from Alpha-Meridian must sail the Atlantic and retrace the final voyages of Captain Edward Teach—Blackbeard. But they are not alone. A newly founded terrorist organization known as Akkad, led by a man named Yaser Al-Umari, has attacked several Christian sites over the past two weeks, and is now willing to do anything to find the pirate’s treasure first, even if it means kidnapping—and beheading if necessary—Cameron’s best friend Francesco Ferrari, who is in Israel for the coming Easter holiday.

The question soon arises for all at Meridian though—Why does a group of Islamic terrorists want the skull of Blackbeard? But the answer, they soon begin to discover, is much more terrifying than even the infamous pirate himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Hyde
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005166397

Justin Hyde

I was born in Los Angeles, California in 1981 and moved to Simi Valley in 1987. I graduated high school there in 1999 and went on to become a mechanical engineer shortly after. In 2009 I wrote my first book, The Talion Law, and quickly discovered that writing was more than just a hobby, but a deep passion. And thanks to the support of my family, especially my 3 amazing daughters, I am able to pursue it.Along with writing and spending time with my girls, I enjoy playing with my German Shepherd and being outdoors. I love backpacking and am always on the hunt for new trails, new adventures, and new stories!What drives my stories is fast-paced adventure and thought-provoking topics such as history, science and religion. As the reader, I hope that you will ask questions as you go on these journey's with me, and even take some time to do a little additional research on your own to anything in my books that sparks your interest.

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Prologue

November 28, 1717

Lesser Antilles Islands, Caribbean Sea

The ocean glimmered with the bright sparkles of an early afternoon sun. With the island of Martinique to their stern, all that could be seen ahead was the open water of the Atlantic over the ship’s bow and the far away island of Barbados to the south. In the distance, the wide fan-shaped tail of a humpback broke the surface, then slowly disappeared back into the depths, followed a second later by a loud blow and a spray of mist as her baby calf came up for air beside her.

The captain looked down at the quartermaster from the helm. What has been done of the boatswain? he asked.

Woods placed a hand on the rail. He has been rightly flogged, Captain. But we still have no supply of pitch.

An easterly breeze swept in and pulled on the black flag flying almost 100 feet overhead on the mainmast—flapping and fluttering it hard enough to gain the attention of both men. The quartermaster glanced up. Another gust followed, this one stronger than the last, and the flag snapped fully open, momentarily revealing the entirety of the image adorned on it—a horned white skeleton stabbing a bleeding heart.

Just below the flag, the man perched in the crow’s nest lifted a glass to his eye.

No matter, the Captain said, pulling the conversation back. Scraped the keel. The hull will hold for now. Soon we leave this ship to the locker. He turned his back and headed for his cabin. Appoint a new boatswain and ready the chain shot.

Aye, Captain, Woods said.

The man above in the crow’s nest lowered the glass and leaned over the side. Two leagues to port! he yelled down.

Both the captain and the quartermaster stopped and squinted at the horizon. The tall sails of the French slave ship La Concorde were beginning to appear in the distance; but with a headwind, it would still be the other side of an hour before they arrived.

Captain Teach turned back to Woods. Take down the foremast and wrap it good in the sail, then secure it in the hold.

Woods had anticipated the coming protection of the second and smaller foremast, and had already ordered men to remove the riggings, although none of them could understand why. No one dared to question the captain’s orders though—even if they came from the quartermaster.

The captain looked out over the rolling sea again at the approaching vessel. The large ship was exhausted from its two-month journey across the Middle Passage from Africa—drained of resources and likely plagued by illness and deaths during the voyage. Even once seeing the danger ahead, it would not be able to turn back or avoid the two pirate sloops now in its path. Make ready the cannons, Teach ordered. Hoist the bow anchor and turn the ship to starboard. I’m going to my cabin.

Woods nodded and turned. Run out the guns, mates! he yelled to the crew on deck.

The command sparked excitement in all of the 40 or so men within earshot. One of the crew’s surgeons leaned over the gunwale and signaled the second sloop to prepare a volley.

Get that foremast down and stowed before I keelhaul every last one of you! Woods yelled.

Quickly the men pulled the small sail and took down the mast. The rest of the sails remained.

The La Concorde was getting closer.

Suddenly, one of the eight men turning the large capstan began singing, and soon the rest followed until the air was filled with a bloodthirsty chant:

I fight, ‘tis for vengeance. I love to see flow,

At the stroke of my sabre, the life of my foe.

I strike for the memory or long vanished years,

I only shed blood where another sheds tears.

I come, as the lightning comes red from above,

O’er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love.

A moment later the captain reemerged from his cabin. He stepped to the helm and pulled down on the front of the large tri-cornered hat on his head. His long, thick and ragged black beard that he wore could strike fear in the hardest of even his own men, but now it smoldered with glowing red embers, and a dozen trails of grey smoke rose out from within it and from around his face where he had stuck lit fuses, making him an even more terrifying sight.

He wore a dark crimson waistcoat of velvet and a silk sash. A cutlass and a dagger were tucked into either side of the thick leather belt around his waist, as well as a pistol, which he pulled, held up into the air, and fired.

In his other hand was the iron hammer.

Surrender they will, or dead they will be! he shouted down to the crew. They all called out and cheered loudly.

La Concorde was now within range of the long-nines, but Captain Teach had no intention of sinking the ship. He preferred to not even damage it if he didn’t have to. It rarely happened that way though. Although, with the smaller guns loaded with split-shot and chain, any attack the captain made could try to at least keep damage to a minimum. They would target the sails and the masts. Things that could be replaced or mended at sea with less difficulty.

He turned to Woods. Are the six-pounders primed?

Aye, Captain.

He turned back to the crew and spoke loudly. Let’em know where here, lads! He dropped the pistol to the deck and pulled the long cutlass from his belt. He pointed it out to sea towards the incoming ship. FIRE!

The gun captain waved an arm and four men, each holding a slow-match, placed the burning ends into the touch holes of the cannons and four 6-pound balls blasted into the air and splashed into the sea with explosive energy just in front of the La Concorde. Water sprayed up as high as the big ship’s gangway. A few seconds later, another volley boomed out from the second pirate sloop to the north. One of the guns had been aimed a little too high and nearly took off the ship’s prow. Frightened crewmen of the La Concorde could be seen scrambling to get below deck with the imprisoned slaves for safety. Only a few remained topside to fight.

Very soon after, a scrawny man appeared on the bow with a white flag which he then tied off to the bowsprit. The La Concorde did have its own guns as well but would never be able to get the big ship broadside for an attack before the two smaller pirate vessels tore her to shreds. It was an easy and quick surrender.

Teach’s crew cheered and raised swords in the air. Settle down ye dogs! the captain ordered. That ship still be carrying a hundred men and cargoes of slaves. Sharp yer eyes as well as yer blades. The ship be our prize, and we take our provisions to her.

Aye aye, Captain, the crew shouted.

The 200-ton La Concorde frigate was now within ropes distance, and Teach’s crew quickly began tossing them over and tying the two ships together. Dozens of the men began leaping and swinging onto the slave-ship, followed a moment later by Captain Edward Teach himself crossing a plank to the other side—his frightening black beard still burning and smoking. He twirled his sword then drove the tip of it down into the sea-beaten wooden floor of the deck and evaluated the condition of the rest of the ship and its terrified crew. Who be in charge here?

Two men stepped timidly forward. The shorter of the two—the one in the French officer’s uniform—spoke first with a tremble in his voice from the sight of the infamous pirate Blackbeard now before him. I am Lieutenant Francois Ernaut, he said. And this is Captain Pierre Dosset."

Blackbeard pulled up his sword and stepped close to the man—looking at him through dark, deep set eyes from years of fighting the sun at sea. He had not chewed a stick in some time, and his teeth were foul and dark stained behind the grey smoke coming from him. Ye see the Devil, says I, Blackbeard said. And I sees a soul. Lieutenant Ernaut shook visibly. A grand ship as this, Blackbeard continued. Belongs to the ruler of the seas. He turned and now spoke loud to all gathered round. These be my waters! Any man dare challenge me will lay tonight with Davey Jones. He lunged forward to one of the La Concorde’s men who stumbled back in fright and fell onto his backside, then turned back to the Lieutenant and Captain Dosset. Mister Woods. Take these rats to their new ship. Tie them to the main. If they resist, tie them to the rudder.

Aye, Captain.

Blackbeard looked at some of his own crew. Fetch the foremast, me hearties. Bring it aboard. Then go reap your spoils.

The pirates cheered.

Blackbeard smiled for the first time today and looked around again at his new conquest. What say the name of this ship?

"La… La Concorde," Captain Dosset said softly.

Blackbeard shook his head in disgust. "From this day, she now be called, Queen Anne’s Revenge."

Chapter One

March 31, 2021, 11:59 p.m.

Derby Wharf,

Salem, Massachusetts

Yaser Al-Umari operated well in the dark. His Stealth Custom-77 private military yacht was equipped with the latest in maritime thermal imaging instruments. It utilized dual gyro-stabilized and cryogenically cooled HD night vision cameras. Even out at sea, Al-Umari could detect and identify a target at ultra-long range. But here in the harbor there were plenty of small scattered lights about to make the East India merchant ship visible from afar.

The Friendship of Salem was a full size 171-foot replica of the original 1797 vessel. The sails were pulled and tied on the tall masts, as was typical for the large wooden ship these days, as she now served as a permanent museum for the National Park Service.

Silently, Al-Umari docked his imposing yacht behind the Indiaman, contrasting the centuries old ship and displaying a remarkable timeline and tribute to the technology and ingenuity of man’s endless quest to dominate the sea.

Two more men and a woman sailed with him. They remained onboard, keeping the boat idling and lightly tethered while Yaser climbed down onto the dock. His black pants and long-sleeve black shirt camouflaged him well against the blacked-out aluminum hull of his ship, and also with the night sky. He walked calmly past the Friendship and into the sleeping town of Salem.

Moving—not slowly— but with a purposeful pace, he headed north on Orange Street, past the red brick buildings of Brookhouse home and the Salem Custom House, then the quiet residences of some of the townspeople until reaching Essex Street, where he made a sharp left. Another quarter mile and he came to a stop in front of the Peabody Essex Museum, only pausing for a moment though at the locked front entrance, then continuing further down until coming to the outer façade of the East India Marine Hall. A huge ship’s anchor stood upright, propped against the front wall.

This section of the museum dated all the way back to its establishment in 1799—a century after the notorious witch trials for which the city was most famous for. Its purpose, to house all the unusual curiosities, unsavory artifacts and global treasures that sea captains who traveled beyond Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope acquired in their adventures. Adjacent to the old hall was the museum’s newest wing—a granite-faced modern structure that, compared to the Marine Hall, was the visual display of a 200 year leap in time, the same way Yaser’s super yacht was with the merchant ship in the harbor.

Between the two buildings was a narrow walkway and the handicap entrance to the museum. Yaser entered the space and stopped at the first set of windows along the side. There was a full moon out, but its light did not penetrate much in the confined area, and Yaser was well concealed as he pulled a small pen-shaped object from one of the upper leg pockets of his pants. The tool was the latest technology of precision laser cutting that used micro infrared beams in a fully self-contained compact unit. A small red light came out the tip as he traced the outline of a four-inch circle on the glass. It made a low fizzy crackling sound as it burned up the last of its small C02 reservoir.

Yaser returned the pen to his pocket and took out another. The second was a button activated vacuum pen with a small half inch suction cup at the end. He placed it against the cut section of glass and the small suction cup grabbed on and he was able to ease the piece away from the rest of the window. He set it lightly on the ground by his feet, then carefully squeezed his gloved hand through the opening and unlocked the window.

Once entering the building, he immediately went for the stairs leading to the second floor, mindful to step lightly across the polished hardwood. The staircase turned several times, and at the top, Yaser found a large open floorplan with near life-size statues of some of the areas notable sea captains and sailors hung from the tan colored walls around the room. Between them were paintings hung in tight groups and glass cabinets and curios spaced along the base of each wall beneath them. One of the cases just to his right contained a large-scale model of the United States frigate, the USS Constitution—Old Ironsides. In another was an 18 th century brass octant once used in maritime navigation, and in the one next to that, an intricate 1840’s scrimshaw carving on a large whale tooth.

Yet none of these items were what he had come for.

He quickly tried to inventory the room. The wall facing the street outside was covered in tall rectangular windows which let the moonlight seep in enough that he did not need to use his small headlamp. Although, after not seeing the skull anywhere among the displayed items, he switched it on and made another sweep.

Where is it?

He looked again and realized for certain now that it was not here. He turned back towards the stairs. There were two other places in the museum that it could possibly be. One was the maritime room on the ground floor of the next building over. If it was not there though—if the museum had taken it off display altogether—he would have to find access to the underground archives.

A beam of light suddenly appeared in the stairwell below. He quickly clicked off his own light and took a step back, although did not run away. There was nowhere to hide.

The light got brighter and soon the man holding it appeared. What are you doing here? he asked with authority. Who are you?

Yaser answered him truthfully and forcefully. My name is Yaser Al-Umari. Where is the skull?

The man looked astonished, but he did not pretend to not know what skull the man was talking about. He hesitated, then answered. It’s not here.

Where is it? Yaser asked again, louder this time.

I… The man was clearly frightened now. His fear was only partially from the intruder in his museum though. More so it was from the skull which the intruder sought. It is cursed, he said. It’s gone.

Yaser was growing impatient. He pulled a long double-edged blade from a concealed sheath on the back of his belt and held it to his side.

No! the man cried. I don’t have it! I threw it into the sea.

Yaser walked over and immediately stuck the pointed tip of the knife an inch into the man’s belly and held it there—blood began oozing out while the remaining 5 inches of the polished blade waited dangerously outside his body. The man dropped his flashlight and cried out. Tears filled his eyes. Where? Yaser asked.

The man coughed, causing his stomach to shift over the point of the dagger. He cringed in pain, praying that the man would not push the blade any farther. I gave it back to him, he said.

Gave it back to who? Yaser was getting angrier by the second. Who had this man given the skull to?

I… The man squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again. Blackbeard.

Chapter Two

April 1st, 2021

5:02 a.m. Local time.

Alpha-Meridian

The college campus of Alpha-Meridian—casually known as just Meridian, or A-M—sat directly on the Prime Meridian—the earth’s zero degree of longitude line. Although, the title of college was not completely accurate.

Situated on the coastline of a recently acquired U.S. territory in the Shetland Islands, Alpha-Meridian specialized in only one thing—Hazardous Relic Recovery. Being only a few years old, the school was only on its second class of students enrolled in the two-year curriculum. There were nineteen of them this time, over double the last class size, and they were just barely getting their feet wet.

Josh and Samuel, two brothers who had gotten the recommendation and approval for admission last year, both jumped out of the small boat—feet first—into the dark open waters just offshore of campus. The blue underwater flood lights from the hull illuminated a hazy field of ocean just around the boat, but beyond the light was the eerie, murky blackness of the North Sea.

Their field instructor had taken them and two others out this morning for what he called, "Shrink or Swim." And although his attempt at crude humor was received as being more childish than funny, it was not incorrect. The water was cold! All four of them wasted no time swimming for shore.

Cameron Skull turned the boat back around and buzzed by them in the small 24-foot Bayliner to go back and pick up the next group of four. The craft was about 20 years old now and really couldn’t hold many more people than that at one time.

Once graduating, most of the students from A-M would go on to become independent contractors for anyone from museums to private collectors, occasionally even being offered full diplomatic positions for world governments. And along with field training, Meridian’s students took on a total of four other classes to prepare them: Relic Recovery and Handling, Operative Training, Deciphering, and CP-Conservation and Preservation—any of which would have been preferable to the 5 a.m. swim right now.

Cameron pulled the boat back up to the dock and signaled the next group to get on board. They all did, except for one. His name was Jase Hillary. Not Jason—Jase. He made sure everyone was clear on that. And God forbid anyone ever call him by his last name. Why Director Kestner liked this guy so much was a mystery to Cameron, and to everyone else at Meridian. But Kestner was the director, and his say was ultimately the final one.

This is bullshit, Jase said. What does this have to do with…

Then don’t do it, Professor Skull said calmly. I don’t care if you pass this course or not.

You know I was an E-4 in the Navy before this, right?

Listen, Cameron said, trying to keep his cool. "I know you think this is a piece of cake and not necessary. And maybe all that is true for you. If so, then great, I’m happy for you. But it’s not optional. Now I may not be your naval commander, but I am your field instructor while you are at this school. And if you don’t make this swim right now along with everyone else, then… well, I think you know exactly what that means." Cameron had to slow himself down and control the urge to let this cocky punk know that he was ex-military as well—special forces green beret—and that before the formation of this school, Alpha-Meridian had also been a secret military force known as Nightcorp International that handled a lot of covert overseas investigations and behind-the-scenes intelligence operations for the United States.

The look in Jase’s face made it clear that he was still hot and mad about this exercise though, but a nice dip in the cold water might be just what he needed to cool him down. Are you in or out? Cameron asked impatiently.

Jase grumbled but got into the boat.

It was a fairly easy swim actually—if you factored out the cold and the darkness—and an hour later, just as the sun was coming up, they were all on their way back to the dorms to dry off and get changed for the first scheduled class of the day starting in a couple hours. There were no alternating schedules or flexible schedules at A-M. All of the nineteen students took the same classes at the same times. And first up this morning was Recovery and Handling. And to the students delight, the first semester introduction was over and their last lecture was yesterday. Today was the first actual discussion class, and Meridian’s newest teacher was leading it.

Her name was Charlotte Tremblay—a French Canadian from Niagra Falls, Ontario. She had graduated valedictorian a year early, at 17, from Saint Michael Catholic High School, then moved overseas as a volunteer for the Bethsaida Excavation Project in Israel rather than go attend a traditional U.C. college in the States like most people her age. Despite her academic achievements and multiple scholarship opportunities, she really aspired more for hands-on life experiences and adventures than for some piece-of-paper degree to frame and hang on a wall. Two of her three seasons of internship had involved excavating the lost biblical city of Bethsaida along the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. In 2019, Charlotte had been among the first to help uncover and preserve the city gates of et-Tell, which dated back to the time of David and King Solomon.

Her third year abroad had had her relocate to Mosul, Iraq where she joined an archaeological field research team to study the tomb of Jonah. After ISIS blew up the prophet’s shrine in 2014, many of the ancient underground tunnels that the Islamic State terrorist group had taken over were exposed—some of which contained biblical inscriptions dating all the way back to the Old Testament.

Six months ago, Charlotte had been awarded with the AIA Award for Best Practices in Site Preservation, and since then, three of her field reports had been published in both popular and academic archaeological magazines.

From there she had tried applying to Alpha-Meridian—before discovering that Alpha-Meridian did not accept applications. Students were only considered by direct referrals. But somehow, Charlotte’s exploratory email had made it into the hands of Iris Whilhelmson, the school’s translator and language specialist, who was intrigued with Charlotte’s small but impressive resume. And, despite her age, once learning of Charlotte’s strong catholic background, combined with her academics and already several distinguished achievements in religious archaeology, A-M decided to hire her instead of admit her.

Charlotte entered the small conference room and