Unknown Waters

By D. Thomas Treadwell

Notorious pirate Peter Blackthorne and his crew face execution unless he escorts a passenger ship from Barbados to the Jamestown colony. Complicating the voyage are the sudden outbreak of war, the passenger ship's incompetent captain, and a beautiful, enigmatic widow who captivates both Blackthorne and his close friend, the ship's surgeon. A fast-moving, character-driven adventure at sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Thomas Treadwell
• Release date: Feb 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224187355

Book preview

SHIP DIAGRAM

A ship with flags on it Description automatically generated

For Grandma, who made me a pirate.

CHAPTER ONE

His Majesty’s Servant

Captain Peter Blackthorne was unaccustomed to standing on the sidelines.

Yet here he was, his back against the wall in the Governor’s ballroom, observing the painfully reserved dancing of the upper class. A smattering of young girls had spotted the handsome, fair-haired Blackthorne, and he noticed them eyeing him from behind their fans. Some had wandered his way, the hems of their gowns sweeping across his boot tips. They passed before him, paused to whisper to each other, then turned and passed before him again, like a line of circling sharks too shy to take a nibble.

Why was he here? He still hadn’t a notion. He would have expected to be met dockside by soldiers bent on arresting him for piracy.

Instead, two days after Legacy had put into Bridgetown, a carriage—emblazoned with the crest of His Majesty’s Servant, Lord Charles Bainbridge, Duke of Marlborough and Governor of Barbados—rolled up to the wharf. The Governor’s personal secretary descended and informed Blackthorne that he and the officers of his choosing were hereby invited to dinner and a ball at his Grace’s mansion.

A ball, Blackthorne responded, his face blank.

Indeed, the secretary sniffed. With ladies and music and dancing and canapes and pastries and fine French wine. We can be civil even in the Colonies, Captain.

As the carriage disappeared into the streets of Barbados, a black-clad man who had been observing from Legacy’s main deck descended the gangway and stepped to Blackthorne’s side. Johnathan Sims—friend, mentor, ship’s surgeon, and beyond all reason, a Puritan. Though stifling in the Caribbean heat, his somber attire reflected an adherence to the religion’s disdain for vanity. What is this, then? Sims said, astonished.

Saints. I haven’t a notion. But now I must find a seamstress, Blackthorne replied with a glance down to his tar-smudged linen shirt.

And you, Mr. Sims? What would you wear to a ball, I wonder? Blackthorne’s invitation was implicit in the question. But wait. Your faith forbids dancing, women, wine, frivolity... He ticked off the list on his fingers. I suppose that leaves you pastries and canapes?

The surgeon gave Blackthorne a sour look. We are not forbidden women.

You simply cannot dance with them. Or bed them unwed. He tilted his head. Which is worse, do you think? Or is it the same degree of sin?

n

Dinner at the Governor’s mansion had been a strange and disengaged affair.

Blackthorne and Sims had been ushered by servants into the grand estate overlooking Bridgetown and the harbor. Servants had taken their hats. Servants had shown them to the parlor, where the other guests had convened for an aperitif. Servants had then seated them at the absurdly long banqueting table in the dining hall. And then the servants had stood against the wall, still as statues, until the bell sounded for them to bring each course in turn.

Shrimp, sprinkled with dill, in white wine and vinegar. Oyster fritters with mango chutney. Sausage and yellow split pea soup. Green beans and diced smoked ham. Rack of lamb with stewed tomato and eggplant. English trifle with a coconut sauce instead of the traditional fruit.

It was rich food for a sailor accustomed to much simpler fare, so Blackthorne ate sparingly, noticing that Sims did the same.

Blackthorne’s only view of Governor Bainbridge had been from yards away, where he was seated at the far end of the table with his wife and daughter, a plump, perspiring girl of perhaps 17. Between Blackthorne’s seat and the Governor’s were 30 or more other guests—all of the noble class, and all damp in their heavy finery. Blackthorne and Sims were situated too far away to hear anything the Governor had said all evening; indeed, the pirate wondered whether Governor Bainbridge had even noticed he was there.

So he and Sims had traded polite conversation across the table with Lady Barbara, who complained bitterly of the heat and had lost much of her milk-white makeup to her handkerchief before the third course. To Blackthorne’s left was Sir Albert, who owned the largest cane plantation on the island and who wondered aloud, through most of dinner, whether England would be at war with France before the end of the year, and oh dear what would that do to the price of sugar? To his right sat a dowager to whom he had not been introduced, but he surmised by her dour silence that she had recognized Peter Blackthorne as the low-born imposter he was.

After dinner, while the guests were milling their way to the ballroom, the governor disappeared entirely. Sims ducked into an adjoining library, ostensibly to peruse the hundreds of volumes lined up on the Governor’s shelves, but Blackthorne could recognize a strategic retreat when he saw one. This was the Puritan’s socially acceptable escape from the frivolity of the dance.

In time, Blackthorne realized that there would be no introductions for him, and thus no acceptable opportunity to invite any of the circling maidens to dance. Every guest, every last one of them, had seen through the veneer of respectability he thought he’d purchased along with his newly tailored grey doublet. He was known for what he was—a pirate—and not one of the governor’s guests would dignify this pretense with any gesture of acceptance.

When the musicians took their first break, Blackthorne slipped outside to a balcony. The night air was measurably cooler, and it stirred with a light breeze that swept up the hill from the sea. He fished a pipe and tin of tobacco from his belt pouch, musing about the evening’s curious circumstances as he proceeded to fill and light it.

Silhouetted against a splash of moonlight on the harbor, Legacy bobbed gently at her anchor. He knew every line of his ship even from this distance, from her magnificent twin stern lanterns—bulbous in their globe shape which was now, he was told, quite out of fashion—to the tiny wad of canvas that was her spritsail, neatly furled into a harbor stow.

Surrounding her were other ships, other dark shapes memorized by other sailors. But it was Legacy that drew his gaze back time and again. Among all those ships in the harbor, only one tugged at him across the distance. The others were only shadows, as lifeless and dull as the ballast rock piled in their bilge. But one was different. One was a lodestone. One was his true north.

Blackthorne tapped his pipe against the stone railing, sending a flurry of sparks and ashes into the night. He would finish his smoke, collect Sims from the library, and return to his ship. Legacy could leave port as soon as tomorrow, if winds were favorable, then sail southwest along the Spanish Main by way of Grenada, Margarita, Cumana. Silver was pouring out of the mines in New Andalusia every month, he had heard. It was melted into ingots and loaded into galleons that sailed—no, waddled like the fat cows they were—westward to other ports of call on the Spanish Main before sailing north for Havana and St. Augustine.

Well. Here you are.

Blackthorne turned to the man who had joined him on the balcony, then dropped immediately to a bow. Your Grace, he murmured.

The Governor. At last.

CHAPTER TWO

A Spot of Trouble

Beastly hot in there. Governor Bainbridge stepped to the railing, then lifted his wig several inches from his scalp and fanned underneath it. Never thought I’d miss the rain and cold of England, but there it is.

As you say, sir.

Well, let’s get to it, shall we? he said, replacing his peruke with a little pat. He withdrew a document from his sash and thrust it toward Blackthorne, who took it with a puzzled frown.

On behalf of His Royal Highness King Charles of England, I hereby award you with a Letter of Marque authorizing you to attack the enemies of the Crown. You and the ship’s company are granted amnesty for crimes heretofore committed. In return, the King demands the usual ten percent of the prizes.

Blackthorne unrolled the parchment and turned it toward the light of a torch. A Letter of Marque, signed by the King and sealed. A royal decree legalizing the looting and plundering of French vessels.

Blackthorne frowned. French vessels only?

"Yes. We are at war with France. The news arrived this morning, but why upset my guests with it tonight? The King needs privateers. I need a ship. You are here in Barbados. Ergo, ipso facto, res est perfectus."

And what of other nations’ ships? Blackthorne asked.

Attacking them would be an act of piracy, the Governor replied. Sail as a privateer of the Crown, refrain from engaging in illegal conduct, and complete one small errand for the King, and you and your men will enjoy all the rights of loyal subjects.

Blackthorne’s head was spinning. Errand?

That ship there— Governor Bainbridge pointed toward the harbor, singling out a small English carrack moored at the dock. "That is Dove, out of Bristol. You will sail on the first suitable wind and escort her safely to Jamestown."

Jamestown? Blackthorne stared.

That is in the Virginia Colony, the Governor said, speaking slowly, as if to an idiot.

"I know where it is, Your Grace, and it is, in fact, in precisely the opposite direction I had planned to sail."

A shame, the Governor replied. This will delay you.

I think not. Blackthorne bristled, handing the parchment back to the Governor. "I cannot accept this under your terms. My company must be free to attack Spanish interests. That is where the true wealth lies, as well you know."

Bainbridge straightened, and even in the dim light of the balcony torches, Blackthorne could see his eyes hardening. "You have been attacking ships of every nation in the West Indies except England, and so the King has turned a blind eye to your activities. But I promise you, do you refuse this Letter of Marque and its expectations attendant, I will set the Royal Navy on you—every last British ship in the West Indies, by God—and you will all hang, and your bodies will rot in gibbets."

He paused, tapping the rolled parchment against Blackthorne’s chest. "I urge you to reconsider, Captain, and save us all a spot of trouble. Dove was due in Jamestown in August, and here it is already November."

Blackthorne gritted his teeth. "Jamestown is a four-week sail. How am I to pay my men if we take no