Chester Bentley and The King of Pirates - Classic Edition: The Chester Bentley Mysteries - Classic Edition, #3

By MJ Colewood

Meet schoolboy Chester Bentley, the world's most famous treasure hunter!

The King of Pirates:

It's the 17th century, and in the sleepy fishing village of Newton Ferrers, the young Henry Every is desperate to escape a life of poverty and family strife. When an unexpected tragedy occurs, he flees to Plymouth, to the dark taverns haunted by pirates and press gangs. Forced into a life at sea then lured into piracy, Henry becomes the infamous 'King of Pirates' and discovers a treasure so precious that he goes to extraordinary lengths to secure it.

Still reeling from the excitement of his previous adventure, Chester Bentley arrives at Devon's oldest boarding school and is quickly drawn into another mystery. Who does the ghostly laughter belong to that taunts him late at night? And what secrets lie in the picturesque village that he is led to? Bentley will have to exercise his unique gift for serendipity and survival, as he contends with the school bullies and a sinister stranger, hard on the heels of his exploits.

This mystery will whirl you from the shores and countryside of Devon to the high seas and exotic lands beyond, compelling you to ask yourself: how far would you go to protect 'the greatest treasure in all the world'?

Buy The King  of Pirates now to begin an epic page-turning mystery that will keep you guessing until the very end!

About The Chester Bentley Mysteries: Bentley has an almost magical gift for finding famous treasure... with a little help from his friends that is. And with each national treasure that Bentley uncovers, he soon becomes a household name, attracting the attention of a mysterious collector who turns against him. But why? And what is it he knows about Bentley's hidden childhood?

So will Bentley fulfill his destiny and the adventure of a lifetime by locating some of the greatest lost treasures from England's dramatic past? Or will he go on to fail when he learns the truth behind the strange dreams that haunt him and why his opponent is obsessed with stopping him?

The Chester Bentley Mysteries is a page-turning series for curious adventurers age 11+ (and their grown-ups); The Da Vinci Code for kids.

If you are fascinated by clues and riddles and determined not to give up until you solve a mystery, then you're ready to join Chester Bentley, and begin his epic tales of history, mystery and adventure.

Readers who enjoyed the following series and books would also enjoy Chester Bentley:
Artemis Fowl
Alex Rider
Nancy Drew
Percy Jackson
The Famous Five
The Secret Seven
Treasure Hunters
The Virginia Mysteries
Michael Morpurgo
Holes by Louis Sachar
Hunter Street TV series

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ Colewood
• Release date: Jun 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201748258

Book preview

TREASURE  SHIP

- 1675 -

- I -

image005.gif

Henry, despite carrying the name of kings, led a life that was far from grand. He seemed like every other dull boy in the village whose destiny was to simply catch fish and pass his days in squalid misery. And yet, his name had been aptly chosen.

He strode up the hillside away from the harbour, looking back down on the white cottages, which were quietly spewing out wood smoke across the small estuary, and over to the village of Noss Mayo directly opposite. Both of the isolated fishing villages sat huddled close to the waterside, offering their residents protection from the elements. At first sight, it was a beautiful setting, but for Henry, accustomed to its reality, it held little appeal. He sighed as he longed for more. His only achievement so far in his pitiable life was surviving the pox, which had carried off more than half of his age in the county.

Sometimes he despised his friends for so readily accepting their fishermen’s fate and ignoring the call of foreign lands. However, what really distinguished him from his peers was that he was the only one among them that was singularly determined to kill his mother.

Strangely, he felt happy to be alive, if only for a moment, as he carried on up the steep incline. He was just sixteen and should have felt like this almost every day, but strife at home had kept happiness frequently at bay. He had gone to the extreme of cutting most of his hair just because his mother had said she liked his curls.

He was average height and squarely built, having been loading and unloading the fishing boats from a very young age. He was good at hard work and lost himself in it. His forearms were as thick as gnarled branches, which he was proud of - Henry knew that the test of a man’s strength lay in his grip. But his eyes, which rarely blinked, betrayed his troubled soul. He was different from the other boys and had aged beyond his years.

Today was the day though, the one he had been anticipating for an eternity. It was time for his father to keep his word and put him into his own boat. That way, he could rid himself of his mother and strike out alone. First, however, he had to collect his father from the stocks where he had been clapped for drunkenness the day before and had found himself for blasphemy the week before that.

As fate would have it, his father would not be buying him a boat today, nor would Henry be settling on an anonymous village existence. Instead, destiny had grand designs for the restive youth. The year was 1675, and before the century was out Henry’s name would resound around the globe and antagonise kings on either side of the equator.

Just as the Parish Constable released Henry’s old man from the stocks, a ship’s mast hove into view and history turned on its hinges, opening a window of opportunity to those fortuitous enough to seize it. From Henry’s vantage point above the harbour, he was one of the first to appreciate the magnitude of the moment. The ship, he believed, was not of English making.

Is that a Portuguese vessel? asked a man in his undulating Devon accent.

Everyone turned their heads in awe, as the impressive wooden hulk filled the modest estuary of Newton Ferrers.

I believe she is.

There followed a numbing silence as all those present tried to make sense of what they thought was happening. Suddenly, one of the group sped off, and this spurred the others into action. There was not a moment to waste. A galleon would never come their way again in this lifetime, or the next. As the villagers rushed down the hill, the constable ran up it to raise the alarm, but his efforts would be in vain; the villagers would carry off anything worth stealing.

It would be the ordinary man that would carry the day and make off with the booty, leaving the privileged elite with none of the spoils for once. Henry ran down to join the crowd which was quickly assembling at the quayside.

From on board, they could now hear voices, and they were English, conversing in their native West Country tongue.

What was this? thought Henry.

Pirates! whispered his father in relieved disbelief. Their presence meant only one thing, what they had all hoped it would mean as soon as the mast had been sighted - booty! But it would only be for those strong enough to claim it.

As the bow of the ship scraped up alongside the stone wharf, those on board disembarked at once, while those on shore leapt aboard to clear up what had been left in the panic by the escaping pirates. Some tackled the pirates head on, wresting from their desperate hands the treasure they were ill able to protect from keener thieves. Bodies scrambled in all directions as chaos ensued.

Shouting was accompanied by screams as knives were drawn and used, spilling blood and jewellery across the deck and harbourside. The deep red sent everyone into a frenzy. Villagers even fought villagers to steal all they could before a King’s ship arrived or the Yeomanry rode into view.

Henry followed his father into the captain’s cabin, but they were met by a fast-moving man, dragging a chest after him. Henry’s father pushed past him as if he was not there and disappeared into the shadows. The struggling man caught Henry by the arm and thrust him against the wall. He pressed his blade hard against Henry’s straining throat, almost stopping him from breathing. Henry was about to die.

’Ere lad, he said, in his strong Devon brogue, suddenly seeing Henry as his only salvation, catch the other end of that chest, and there’ll be the ’andsomest reward for you. If not, I’ll gut you right ’ere!

Henry, in fear of his life, clasped the leather strap and pulled the chest swiftly to the gangplank with the pirate barging bodies aside and into the water as they went. All the time the pirate scowled at him, lest he fled. Despite the threat, it dawned on young Henry that there was more chance of coming away with some loot by helping the pirate, than if he followed his father to scavenge for scraps. It all depended on whether the pirate kept his word or killed him once they were safely off the ship.

Mercifully, the trunk was manageable, but Henry noted its substantial weight, which only further excited his boiling blood. A life of riches could be inside, a life of leisure and ease, he thought. There was no time to think sensibly; everything happened in an instinctive rush.

As they stepped onto land, two men lunged at the chest. The pirate drew a pistol and fired at close range. Henry felt the heat from the flash of powder and saw the two men fall in unison as the shot ripped through the pair of them. The sight of the dead men and the pirate pulling another pistol from his belt cleared the area immediately around them. The extra space bought them just enough time to escape the mass of bodies that were beginning to swarm over the ship’s hull, like parasites devouring the remains of a carcass.

Right then lad, take me out of this place to somewhere I can rest me legs and this ’ere chest. And don’t be thinkin’ of runnin’ off or I’ll be usin’ this pistol next.

Henry nodded, his deep breathing stifling his speech. His eyes were wide with the terror of the moment, and his heart pounded with exhilaration. He had completely forgotten about his father now. They scurried the short distance to the edge of the village where it disappeared into woodland. The two then moved as fast as their adrenalin allowed them, scaling the steep forest slopes until finally they could see the valley below them.

Henry led the way to a small hollow, covered with dense vegetation and dropped his end of the chest. It thudded down, and he collapsed to gulp in the forest air. The pirate followed Henry’s lead but kept to his feet, turning to see if they had been followed. When he was satisfied that they were alone, he too crumpled to the ground.

It was some time before either of them could get their breath, but when they did, the first thing they noticed were the distant screams. Through the breaks in the branches, they could make out bodies, swarming like ants under attack through the streets of Newton Ferrers below. People from Noss Mayo on the other side had also arrived and were confronting those pirates that had separated from the main group. Few would make it out from the valley with their life, let alone their precious goods.

The pirate captain now took a moment to look at Henry properly and lifted his pistol up to him. Henry jerked backwards as he prepared for the impact of the shot.

Don’t you go gettin’ any ideas that you’d be makin’ away with me riches here, young lad. I stole this lot fair and square, and ain’t nobody relievin’ me of it. Is that clear?

Henry nodded, still unable to speak.

I’m stayin’ put. You, me lad, is goin’ to ensure I am well looked after. You bring me food, and I’ll give you an ’andsome pay. And when things have calmed, I’ll set meself up a life down ’ere in Newton Ferrers. And you gonna be helpin’ me. How does it sound?

Henry nodded again, his eyes fixed on the muzzle that gradually lowered itself on his agreement.

Good. Now be careful you don’t go gettin’ any ideas of bringin’ your father or brothers ’ere at any time, or I’ll cut ’em to pieces. You be wise, and you’ll be rich. You get foolish, and you’ll get dead!

Later that night, Henry descended from the forest to find the fishing village occupied by the militia, searching for the contents of the Portuguese ship. It was obvious to Henry that the wealthy were keen for their share as well. But he had a more pressing problem to ponder, and that was how to get back into his cottage without getting caught. It wasn’t until the early hours that he succeeded and found his mother asleep at the hearth, with his father nowhere to be seen. Had he been killed? he thought.

Henry’s tiredness soon overcame him. Even his excited thoughts of the future that awaited him, if he helped the pirate, subsided and his stressed body fell into a helpless slumber. When he eventually awoke, it was indeed a new beginning, but not quite the world he had imagined in his sweet sleep. Traumatic events were indeed waiting in the wings for young Henry.

COWBOYS & INDIANS

- Autumn Term, 1983 -

- II -

206px-Earl_of_Mount_Edgcumbe_COA.svg.png

Bentley and Montague came down the century-old wooden staircase of their new boarding house that teetered like the mast of a tall ship. They pulled their ties straight and adjusted their jackets as fifty other boys rushed about the place in all directions doing the same thing. 

Bentley looked over the banister and gaped down into the dark ceramic-tiled basement four storeys below. It stopped him dead; he knew the feeling. There was no mistaking it. Something was emanating from down there but it was the first time he had felt the presence of evil. An uneasy shiver snaked down his spine.

Come on, you, complained a boy behind them, we’ve got to get to class.

Bentley snapped out of it and carried on down with Montague to collect up their books. As he opened the door to leave, three senior boys from the Upper Fifth, Horncastle, Blake and Bullard, were coming the other way. Without hesitation they barged into Bentley, almost knocking him to the floor.

Get out the way, sprog! blurted Bullard. Horncastle giggled and they walked off.

Bentley was tempted to say something, but Montague calmed him, and in the end he simply asked, Sprog?

Come on, you should know that, it’s what they call the new boys. But don’t mind those two, said Montague, I was at Buckland with them before you came. They’re not nice, but they’re harmless enough.

Montague might have been right, but Bentley didn’t share his optimism. He only sensed trouble to come.

Bentley straightened himself up and they walked out into the brisk morning air.

The playing fields were covered in a delicate blanket of sparkling dew, and in the near distance stood the main school buildings, dressed in their fine red sandstone.

They followed the path that encircled the aptly-named School Field; the perfect setting for that time-honoured element in any quintessential British education, sport. The rugby posts were pristine white in readiness for the season to begin.

Lord Silas was right, Bentley thought, when he had said that Cotehele was a fine establishment.

They passed the cricket pavilion as the long line of boys, like marching ants, headed toward the Tudor-like clock tower, leaving their boarding house, New House, NH as they called it, behind them until break time.

They carried on to the Victorian chapel and into the heart of the school nestled around a quadrangle of immaculate grass.

Bentley and Montague looked up as they passed below the clock tower. The main Buxleigh Overton road ran alongside the path, cutting the school grounds in two. On the other side of the road lay the modern dining rooms and Big Hall.

Hawkins! called out a master, walking towards them, Where are you going with that skateboard?

Nowhere, Sir, said a horrified Hawkins, who knew what was going to happen next.

Pass it here.

When will I get it back, Sir?

When I return from class, dear boy.

The boy reluctantly handed over the board.

The master took it, put it on the ground, placed one foot on it and then raced off, leaving Hawkins agape.

Mind yourselves there, lads! he warned, as he glided past Bentley and Montague. The boys jumped aside.

The door there! shouted the master to the teenager entering the History block. The dark-haired individual quickly swung the door open just in time, dropping his books, but allowing the teacher to dart through the entrance unhindered and surf into his classroom. The man jumped off the board, which crashed into a desk, startling the boy already seated there.

Having made his entrance, the master thudded his leather briefcase down on his desk,

Good morning gentlemen! And ladies! Of course.

The classroom looked up in alarmed unison.

Any of you from Westgate House?

I am, Sir, replied an impressed Fitzwilliam.

Good. Make sure this finds its way back to Hawkins.

Yes, Sir.

Bentley and Montague then entered the room to find Iona and Cora already seated at the back with Quigg. The boys dumped their books down on the desks and struck up conversation with the two girls.

Right you are then, said the master as someone claimed the last desk. My name is Dickie Buckle, and I will be your History teacher throughout the Fifth Form, so if you can’t stand my classes, no need to worry, you only have to suffer them for the next three years.

Mr Buckle wore a fetching green moleskin suit, elaborate tan brogues and a mustard tone waistcoat. A silk handkerchief peeped out of his top pocket, and a knitted burgundy tie finished the dandy look. The only thing that offset it was his wild and wandering hair that was as well-groomed as a bramble bush. He came across as brash, but enthusiastic to impart knowledge.

It would not be long before the class would sense that the more academic History teachers upstairs, instructing the Sixth formers, did not have much time for dear Mr Buckle. They shared neither his eagerness, nor his modesty, and these were precisely the qualities that endeared him to his class from the very start. Even those who confessed a dislike for the subject began to warm to the study of the past under his guidance. Prime amongst Mr Buckle’s antagonists was Mr Kibblewhite, the Oxford-educated European History teacher, who, while popular himself amongst the students, was unable to command the faith and high esteem with which the boys and girls held Mr Buckle.

I shall run through this roll call as quickly and painlessly as possible. We all need to know each other’s names, so please raise your hand when I read yours out.

He got to the last two names on the list and halted, Bentley… Chester Bentley? As in the treasure hunter?

Bentley nodded, embarrassed. A whisper shot round the room.

Charlotte, with her silky blond hair and neat appearance, looked over at him. There was something fresh about her that set her apart from the other girls. Bentley looked around and saw her looking at him. She shot him an almost hypnotising smile. Cora didn’t miss the girl’s connection with her boyfriend. Bentley later learned that her mother was Scandinavian.

"Ah! Interesting. But last, and not least, Master Piers Halfpenny, Piers Halfpenny? That name is also familiar."

I was with Bentley when he found the treasure. Maybe it was in the papers.

No, said a perplexed Mr Buckle, I’ve heard it in connection with something else. Does the name ‘Montague’ mean anything to you?

Yes, said Piers, it’s my nickname. It was my great-grandfather’s name. No one calls me Piers, not even my family.

Great-grandfather you say? That says something to me. First World War, perhaps?

Montague nodded.

I still can’t place it, though. No matter. It’ll come to me later.

The students looked at each other with increased amazement.

Mr Buckle was momentarily entranced, staring out into the distance. Well, we must get on, he said, returning his attention to his understudies, how was the summer then? Anyone do anything interesting?

Only one hand went up.

Okay, said Mr Buckle, looking down at the class list, Master Coplestone.

I went to the Bahamas, Sir.

Very nice. Which island did you stay on?

Great Abaco.

Haven’t been there. I have been around the Florida Keys. And Nassau, of course.

Anyone been to Florida?

I have, said Midgeley, but not the Keys.

What are the Florida Keys, Sir? asked a timid sounding Bentley.

They are islands that form atop a coral reef, I believe. The Bahamas is full of them.

They’re also called Cay, Sir, said Quigg.

They are indeed. But I am not here to educate you in matters of elementary geography. My mission here is History, of far more use to you in this world and maybe even in the next, especially if you are Egyptian! So, what can you tell me about the Bahamas and its place in history? What do you know? Don’t be shy, speak up. Let your voices be heard, while you have tongues to wag and lungs to give them life!

Pirates? said Cora.

Right, Miss... he looked down at his list, Roy. But why did they become famous for pirates?

Spanish gold, said another.

"Well done, Master... Fitzwilliam. The Spanish brought back gold, and we relieved them of as much of it as we could, although, they actually brought back much more in the way of silver. But what did the Spanish take to the New World?"

Spanish!

Any other pearls of wisdom? said Mr Buckle.

Smallpox? offered Iona,

Excellent, Miss... Moss. What else?

Things dried up.

There then came a bellow from upstairs, it was Mr Kibblewhite.

Close that damned door, man! We have important European matters to attend to.

Mr Buckle smiled as the class laughed.

Mr Coplestone, you seem a trustworthy messenger. To your feet, please. I wish you to go upstairs and tell Napoleon and his cohorts not to trouble us with their internal and intolerable European conflicts; we are dealing with the greater questions of history here, which his petty nationalistic wars can never resolve. Do you wish me to repeat any part of that?

No, Sir. It’s clear.

Very well. Now go thither and do your worst to Mr Kibblewhite’s European defences.

Coplestone went upstairs and a loud, Yes, boy? was heard, booming from Mr Kibblewhite. His class burst out laughing.

Coplestone then returned to class.

Well? said Mr Buckle, What was his answer?

He said he would be down to see you shortly.

Thank you, Master Coplestone.

They then heard a commotion and more laughter from upstairs.

Let us not be further distracted from our learning by European despotism, said a jovial Mr Buckle. The class giggled and then roared with laughter, turning in their seats as something appeared outside the window. It was Mr Kibblewhite, wearing a World War I gas mask. Mr Buckle walked over and opened the window. Mr Kibblewhite stepped off the drain pipe and onto the ledge.

Invading again, Mr Kibblewhite?

We are bringing the Republic to you heathen monarchists!

The students laughed, enjoying the tit-for-tat banter.

We prefer stability and security over disruptive and destructive passions.

You are a nation of shopkeepers after all.

Commerce is a noble pursuit, but we know that you, Napoleon, consider your officers the noblest in society. So, go back to your continental in-fighting and leave us to the ordinary business of life.

A bad government is always preferable to a good king. It is only a question of time before your corrupt system flounders and the inevitable change occurs. Then who will you turn to? We shall be waiting upstairs for when you come to call.

And yet constitutional monarchies are considered the very model of democracy others look to follow and not your modern republics. Be gone with ye I say, and climb back up to your dungeon. The first time in history that such a room was on an upper floor!

The classroom cheered, and the students applauded from the corridor above.

With a dramatic gesture, Mr Kibblewhite donned his gas mask and climbed back onto the drainpipe to return to his classroom. Meanwhile, Mr Buckle returned to his lectern, the room energised by the exchange. Before Mr Buckle could resume his talk, however, there was a feeble knock at the window. It was Mr Kibblewhite.

Ask that damnable fellow what he wants now? Mr Buckle said, pointing to Coplestone, seated by the window. Coplestone stood up. Mr Kibblewhite lifted his gas mask to reveal a red, sweaty face.

I’ll return through your classroom, said the distressed looking teacher.

"In need of assistance so soon? I thought we were supposed to call on you. You can get help from your European neighbours. That is if you’re not at war with them at this point. Master Coplestone?"

Sir?

Draw the curtain.

The boy looked at Mr Buckle in disbelief. Was he really not going to open the window, Coplestone thought. Mr Buckle just nodded calmly to insist that he do as instructed.

Coplestone drew the curtain, and there was a brief, muffled yelp of desperation. Coplestone took his seat and then they heard the scratching sounds of someone or something climbing up the wall and drainpipe. There came the rasping of lungs under duress, and then a bang as the metal-framed window above was eventually closed after him. Mr Buckle let his class sit in silence and enjoy the hidden spectacle.

"Now, where were we before war interrupted our congenial lives? Ah yes, the delightful Bahamas, or Baja Mar, ‘low sea’ as the Spanish would call it. You may be curious to learn, said Mr Buckle, that the Spanish took the pig, now found everywhere and the horse to the Americas. Although the first horses arrived via Asia, but by the time the Spanish arrived, they had all died out."

So, Sir, you’re effectively saying no Spanish in the Americas: no Cowboys and Indians?

There would have been Indians just not riding around on horseback, but there certainly wouldn’t have been any cowboys. That was something the Spanish also took to the New World. Spain is the only country in Europe where ranching has always been practised, which is looking after livestock in the field from horseback. Ask yourself, which US State is famous for cowboys? Go on... ask yourselves.

Texas, said Midgeley.

"Precisely. The State closest to the Spanish Americas, saving New Mexico and California, which were also once Spanish. Mexico has its vaqueros and Argentina its gauchos. Andalusia, in southern Spain, is the only place in Europe where there are cowboys, and they exported that system to the New World. Seville, capital of Andalusia, was where all trade from the New World passed. It was the Big Apple of its day. So Old Seville, the city of Eternal Youth as one writer I know calls it, was the ‘Big Orange’ if you like. In fact, that’s where the famous Mustang came from, descended from the horses that had escaped from the Spanish. So, the word ‘cowboy’ is a translation of the Spanish vaquero and not vice versa. It’s no more American than Tom Payne or the music to America (My Country, ’Tis of Thee)."

I have a video of the Bahamas if you want to watch it, Sir, said Coplestone, hoping to continue the distraction and avoid doing any reading or writing.

The class couldn’t believe it, as some of them winked at each other.

It’s only brief, he went on, doing his best as an insurance salesman.

Have you got it with you?

I was going to give it to Fitzwilliam here, he’s planning on going there at Christmas.

What a stroke of luck! whispered Cora to Iona.

You there, Master... Midgeley, drag out the TV and set up the video please.

Soon the class were nestled against their desks, being transported to crystalline waters and lush vegetation. The film opened with horses running along the shoreline.

Those are the descendants of the Spanish horses I told you about, said Mr Buckle.

Well, they might be horses, mumbled Iona to Bentley, but they’re not Spanish, they’re Arab. Poor man can’t tell his horses apart. Bentley was impressed by Iona’s observation and knowledge.

Half an hour later and the film finished.

Thank you for that entertaining distraction Coplestone, took me back to my holidays there, Mr Buckle gave a small sigh of blissful reminiscence. Tell me, why did you go to the Bahamas? Just a holiday?

That and to do a sailing course, replied Coplestone.

Some place to learn sailing! said Cora.

Have any trouble with learning how to read longitude and latitude? asked Bentley.

Impossible. All the degrees and minutes, said Coplestone.

Longitude, said Mr Buckle, interrupting their conversation and bring the class’ attention back to him, "was the greatest scientific problem of its day, in fact. And the Admiralty offered a handsome prize for the man who could solve it.

"One day I may tell you the remarkable story of the clockmaker Samuel