A Pirate's Legacy: Return of the Brethren

Chapter 1

The Visitor

ariah couldn't identify where she was. The beach house, or on the beach, or in their bedroom? She relaxed. It didn't matter. She would be with her husband, his strong arms encircling her body, his lips gently caressing her neck. Hopefully, they were on the beach where all their children were conceived. It was time to have another baby. Then there was movement behind his broad shoulders, something coming toward them, cloaked in black, indistinguishable, taking hold of his arm, pulling him away. Her hand locked onto his other arm with a tenacious grip. She would not let him go. Not again. He looked at her and smiled. She fought to resist knowing the struggle was useless. Releasing his arm, anger filled her breast.

The apparition handed him a sword. It was broken. The sign of death. Tears stained her cheeks as he gently took her chin in one hand, kissing her upon the lips. As he and the specter began to disappear into the foggy blackness Jean-Paul ran to his father, taking hold of his hand. She tried to cry out, NO, but the sound was drown by the explosion of cannon fire. They are lost in a sea of blinding light from which stepped the cloked specter walking toward her, a body cradled in its arms, thin, gray arms and feet protruding from a shroud, a body lying motionless, a body she recognized. Crumpling to knees, tears soaked the ground.

Awaken with a start, Mariah's hand immediately reached out to where her husband lie. He wasn't there. A brilliant flash of light followed by deep, rolling thunder rattled the house as the dream continued to weigh heavily upon her mind, clouding reality. Breast seized with pain, heart pounding, the cold perspiration of fear caused her to tremble. It was only a dream, but a terrifying premonition. Not finding François where he should lie only intensified anxiety.

Still disoriented, another brilliant flash caused a moment of blindness. A loud, cannon-like crack of thunder muffled her startled cry. Anxiously looking about she made out a figure silhouetted by more flashes of lightning standing on the balcony looking outward—her husband, legs apart with hands behind his back as rain poured from the roof, the wind spraying some on him while whipping the nightshirt. Mariah relaxed a little. He did that whenever a storm buffeted their island home, more so this time of year whether it rained or not. Fifteen years before his ship, the Fleurette, was sunk. In a moment his shipmate family and adoptive father, Capt. Jean-Paul Evreux, were gone, leaving him tossed upon the waves toward a much different life.

As strong the call might be, François resisted the Siren's song to return to the sea upon which he grew up, instead building a home and life for her and the children until kidnapped by the pirate, Hogshead Shaver. He left a young man, returning two years later a more confident, seasoned leader, a hero, prone to times of solitude standing upon the veranda, reliving the times he remained upon the quarterdeck holding fast to the wheel, piloting through tempests, man-made or natural attempting to ensnare his ship.

On rare occasions he spoke of those adventures with Hogshead, but only in vague or general terms. She knew he missed that life while doggedly holding fast to the commitment to sacrifice whatever the sea offered to stay near his family. Still, that call was unrelenting. The dream continued to haunt her as she watched him until the storm moved on and the rain and wind subsided.

Returning inside, François walked to where the twins lie asleep. The girls were five months old now. He adjusted their cover and turned toward the bed.

They'd sleep through a fusillade, he said softly.

How did you know I was awake in the dark?

The sound of your breathing, he answered quietly. She marveled at how acute he was to the world.

You must be wet. He slipped off the ankle length gown and crawled beneath the covers, pressing against her. And cold. She giggled while wrapping an arm over his chest to pulled him close.

This could cause problems.

Are we still going to the beach tomorrow?

Yes.

I can wait until then.

When François eventually began snoring, Mariah refused to leave off, hooking a leg over his, an arm over his chest, snuggling her head on his shoulder. She admired his ability to sleep so soundly regardless of the situation, but her dream doggedly persisted, refusing to let go as she refused to let go of her husband.

When a rooster began its raucous trumpeting, François left their bed to fasten the triangular diaper-like loincloth over which he laid a cloak ending mid-thigh, both made of soft, goat skin. First introduced to the native Bimbache garments when his European clothes disintegrated from age, he became fond of wearing them, becoming his usual attire until after the morning bath.

Retrieving the damp nightshirt, he hung it over the back of a chair on the veranda before walking quietly from the room. Mariah followed every move closely from beneath the covers.

Even though the little plot of garden Mariah's father started had grown into the largest, most productive plantation on El Hierro with a large retinue of workers, her husband still cared for the same, small garden supplying their daily meals. He enjoyed the feel of the warm, rich earth between his toes, the sun on his back, and clean smell of a freshly washed breeze.

Mariah stepped onto the veranda nursing one of the twins who started to fuss. Looking down, she watched François hoe the ground. Luis, now fourteen, and Harvey, ten, were there, Jean-Paul, now sixteen, was not. Ever since his father returned from defeating the invading French ship the boy followed in his father's shadow, but obviously overslept, again. Each had a daily quota and being late was cause for the boy to almost miss breakfast. She was about to roust him from bed when he stepped from the veranda, walking like a tired man.

You came home very late, François said as he watched his first-born begin sluggishly flail at the weeds in his row. There was no reply. The coming storm hid the moon. I have asked you to not travel the mountain in the dark.

Adriano has good eyes. I let him find the way.

It is still dangerous.

Next time I'll stay until morning, alright?

And arrive in time to work the garden?

I hate this garden.

You do not wish to eat? François' voice remained calm as he quietly searched for an explanation to his son's truculence.

We have servants that could do this.

They work first to provide for themselves and second for others who are engaged in work to provide what they can not. It is called a division of labors.

We are others. They could tend this . . . this garden, and we provide them jobs.

As long as we are physically capable, we will do this for ourselves. Your responsibility is to arrive on time and do the assigned task. The Bimbache do not usually stay up late.

We were just talking.

What would have happened if the storm came upon you before arriving home?

I was watching it. The tone of his voice was curt.

I have asked you to abide a sensible request and be off the mountain before dark. It is out of concerned for your safety that I say this, Jean-Paul.

There was a period of silence before the lad spoke. Im sorry." He didn't sound remorseful.

The boy had spent much of the day at the Bimbache village on the coast several miles south of the hacienda. He'd seen the storm building on the watery horizon. Their plantation overseer's sister warned him, but he chose to remain and spend a little more time, fully intending to leave before growing too dark. The stormed moved more quickly, casting the world into premature night. He admonished himself for not staying in the village overnight instead of trying to beat the approaching storm home. Glancing southwest, the near constant lightning illuminated boiling clouds. It frightened him, but he would never admit that.

No matter how tried to spur is horse to move faster, it refused to change pace. The lightning kept blinding him. Seeing the rocky trail was nearly impossible, and he would not put himself or the rider in danger. When off the ridge and on familiar ground at the hacienda, Adriano moved rapidly to the barn, its body lathered from worried sweat. His rider took care to store the saddle and bridle, administer a quick rub down, and provide grain and hay. The storm had arrived, the flashes of light much too close, the thunder far to loud. The clouds opened just as Jean-Paul reached the kitchen door. The boy knew he would be in trouble that morning. He'd seen his father standing on the balcony. Coming home was a mistake. He didn't need to be reminded.

François continued to glance at his son while working. The sweet, adoring child had become increasingly recalcitrant over the last months, short-tempered, snapping at the least perceived offense. Cirano, the plantation's Bimbache overseer, remarked about it. The other children complained to him. Jean-Paul had even confronted Hassan, who had a quick temper and little tolerance for belligerence. The Arab threw him into the pig's mud. When the boy came out like an enraged mother goose, he flew into deeper quagmire, landing face down. Cirano stepped between them when Jean-Paul charged a third time. Something was said and the huge Bimbache took the boy by collar and belt, escorted him waiving and thrashing, deposited him in the bathing pool to, Clean your body and cool off.

When François next saw his son, the boy was cradled in his mother's arms, crying in frustration. He didn't feel there was anything to add to what Mariah said. Perhaps he should have. Jean-Paul was developing a stubbornness and a propensity to forget some important lessons. Another encounter with Hassan some weeks later left him on the ground from a resounding slap. After that, he controled both temper and mouth in Hassan's presence.

Neither father nor son spoke as they went about tilling the garden. Usually there was light banter or François imparted lessons on how to manage their holdings. The boys, especially Jean-Paul, instead wanted to hear more of François' early life among pirates. Sometimes he spoke of the time Hogshead Shaver kidnapped him, and the two years sailing with the pirate, Dolphin, always careful, holding certain things within. The Battle for El Hierro making him a hero was one story he never broached, always changing the subject when brought up. The death of over 600 sailors and soldiers by his command left a deep scar. Something else happened that day leaving a deeper wound. Today there was none of that as Luis and Harvey were busy chatting among themselves. This wasn't the first time silence opened a gulf between father and son.

As first born, part of Jean-Paul's education was to learn the plantation's operation. François taught the business side while Cirano provided the hands-on side. He payed attention, but noticed that his foreman was frequently frustrated with the boy's lackadaisical attitude.

During a concerned conversation with Mariah after retiring to their bed not long ago, she asked, What would Capt. Jean-Paul have done if you acted in such a manner?

We could talk through my problems. I would have never done anything to displease him. On the other hand, Adm. Shaver would have thrown me overboard and hauled in the trailing rope.

After breakfast, part of the boy's day involved formal education. Walter, their manservant, tutored Mariah's menfolk and his own Jeremiah, in the sciences, languages, and mathematics. Unless working with Cirano, Jean-Paul rarely left sight of his father. That was something of a joke, but he was obviously fearful of being separated again after François' returned from service with Hogshead Shaver. The six months François was in North Africa was a difficult time for both the boy and his mother, as she worried, and his blossoming antics only added to the stress. The hour before bed was Mariah's turn to teach, using her Bible.

Looking down from the veranda at Jean-Paul in the garden reminded her of when dolphins carried François to El Hierro. Then thirteen, he stood a broad shouldered, deep-chested 5-7. Jean-Paul was a slender 5-10. He would most likely be as tall as his father who now stood nearly six-foot, but more slender like her father. Already strong for his age and well-built, he only needed a bit more age to fill out. Mariah's North African heritage lent the youth a darker complexion deepened by long days in the sun. Long, light brown hair, bright, effervescent, blue eyes, and a broad smile made it necessary to keep him busy from sunrise to past sunset. Every girl in Valverde, Sabinosa, Frontera, or the Bimbache village, even those at the hacienda turned to feast their eyes upon him.

She and François married when he turned fifteen, she sixteen. In the next fourteen years she had bore him fourteen children thanks to several sets of twins, four boys and ten girls, and felt the desire for more, however she was not ready to become a grandmother. Not just yet. Their oldest child would have to wait.

Bodies glistened as rivers of perspiration freely cascaded down their brown bodies when workers began arriving to till adjoining fields, the signal to quit. Standing upright François looked toward the broad, shaded veranda where his beloved Mariah reigned in resplendent beauty. She was nursing one of the twins, probably the second by now, while the fifteen-year-old twins, Talitha and Tabitha, prepared the four younger children for their busy day under the watchful eye of Cirano's mother, Reah. Their eleven-year-old and nine-year-old twin girls would be busy in the kitchen. Walter's wife, Melissa, managed the house staff. François smiled proudly and waived to his wife before turning to the boys.

Time for breakfast.

Luis and Harvey broke into great grins while Jean-Paul remained dull and sullen as he shouldered the hoe and walked toward the shed at the side of the house where they cleaned the tools before storing them.

Are we still going to the beach today, papa? Luis asked.

That is the plan, he replied with anticipated pleasure of seeing Lucy and Hassan who lived in the seaside cabin where this phase of his life began.

Can I go, too? Harvey asked.

As always. Only the younger ones will stay here.

Returning to his old, carefree self, Jean-Paul joined his brothers who bolted away, ducking behind the trees forming a privacy shield around the bathing pond. François knew Jean-Paul would dive from the Dragon's Head and remembered the first time the lad took the death-defying plunge. He'd seen his father do it many times and longed to do it too, but just couldn't get up the courage.

I'm afraid, papa, the boy said, staring longingly at the sea so far below.

It's no shame to recognize fear and walk away, but it will always haunt you. Someday you will have to face that fear, and learn to conquer it, was the gentle reply.

Taking position at the small cairn of stones which was the starting point, François sprint to the edge of the volcanic promontory, and leap into the air, momentarily suspended as if a marionette before plunging into the pleasantly cool water below. The boy gingerly crept to the edge, stared longingly over the precipice into the undulating, aquamarine water as his father sliced beneath the surface, the long, dark shapes of their friends circling off shore, now racing toward him. Jean-Paul would then sit, knees pulled to chest to stare out across the endless water that encircled their island before walking down to the beach.

One day François had just surfaced and looked up to see the boy fly off the cliff. Seconds later the lithe, brown body hit the water feet first and disappeared. Presently his head popped above the surface. For an instant he was quiet, then breaking into a white-toothed grin, he began slapping the water, and screaming, I did it! I did it! Now there was no keeping him from flying. He began learning to conquer fear at seven.

Approaching the wall of trees François heard the splash of water, knowing they had already thrown off loincloths and set an ambush.

The bathing pool was an ingenious thought. Expanding a natural depression and damming the stream created a pool three to four feet deep to wash one's body, or in the boys' minds to play. The continuous flow of water kept it fresh and inviting. From there the water scurried off to irrigate the gardens, and regroup before plunging down the ravine, past the beach house, and leap into the sea. Mariah requested that a modesty wall surround the bath, thus the trees and shrubs now high enough to obscure it even from the second story veranda. François never denied her requests although he sometimes put forth lighthearted objections just to appear he was still master of the house.

Turning the corner, François stripped off the loincloth while keeping an eye on Jean-Paul. The other two were on the other side engaged in a water fight. Jean-Paul was the near side, obviously set to launch a spray of water as soon as his papa stepped in. Instead, François leap from the side, grabbing his knees, and curling into a tight ball. The resulting wave knocked the boy backward causing him to thrash wildly to regain the surface thus thwarting his plan.

No fair! he howled, wiping water from his face.

Never let an advantage escape. Always prepare for the unexpected, François admonished.

With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Jean-Paul swipe a hand across the undulating surface, sending up a pitiful spray of water. Of course François reciprocated and for the next few minutes water flailed wildly amid laughter until all too soon a stately gentleman approached holding out drying towels.

Lady Evreux is waiting, he said with deliberation which meant the other children had finished breakfast and it was time to get out and join her.

As they dried off, Walter's son, a year older than Jean-Paul, held out fresh clothes; an undergarment, knee-length pants, and loose, cotton shirt that lace up from the breastbone, but was usually left undone. No shoes. There seldom were. As a child in France with his parents, and then with the old Jews, François wore them only when outside. Living on the streets he had none. Aboard ship he found them unnecessary. In the presence of the Governor and during execution of official duties, and formal, social events he suffered the discomfort, but not in his own home. On this he and Mariah were of the same mind. Dressed, they headed to the lower veranda. François didn't like keeping his wife waiting. Besides, there would be more time to play at the beach.

Turning to the gentleman at his side, he asked, Have our plans changed, Walter?

No, sir. You are still going to the cove this afternoon.

François smiled. Being a wealthy plantation owner and an official on the governor's staff made demands on his daily routine. He disliked feeling harried. Walter kept things in order.

I'll be there in a moment, Jean-Paul said, having swam across the pond at a leisurely pace and only began dressing as the two fathers headed toward the house side by side, the other boys already at the door.

That was a difficult concept for Walter, who in his life as a servant walked slightly behind the master. François would have none of that, either. They may have technically been master and servant, but were also good friends. The informality bothered Walter at first, but was growing easier with it.

I am concerned, Walter, he said. Jean-Paul returned from the village well past midnight. He has been surly, quick to anger, argumentative, even defiant. He shows Cirano and Hassan disrespect.

It is the building frustrations of becoming a man. They need release or explode like an angry volcano. Surly you remember those times in your life.

François chuckled. Yes. I would swing through the ship's rigging like the great apes of Africa. I listened to the sailors talk and knew I needed a woman, but he is still a child.

Trapped in a man's body, Walter said.

What do you suggest?

If I may so bold, but you are too indulgent and protective of the young man. He is like a young horse who wishes to run free, but is harnessed.

That is what Mariah says, too, but he is still young and has much to learn.

Continue to teach, but be patient. He may not seem to listen, but it is. He will stumble, but you have given him the strength to stand.

Jeremiah waited for Jean-Paul and entered the house together a bit later engaged in carefree banter. Only a year apart in age, François thought Jeremiah must be undergoing similar internal turmoil, but showed little of it. Instead, he had a steadying influence on Jean-Paul. Except when Jean-Paul went to the Bimbache village, the pair frequently spent free time together.

Walter Fitzroy was a gentleman's servant accompanying his employer from Bristol to the New World. Their ship stopped at Las Palmas on Gran Canaria Island to re-supply before the long trip across the Atlantic, and had just set out when a storm overtook the vessel driving it unmercifully until casting it upon the rocks of El Hierro. Somehow Walter pulled his wife ashore, but unrelenting waves ripped their youngest son from his grasp and along with his employer, was lost. Jeremiah staggered ashore having broken his arm.

As Minister of Ports, François was summoned immediately. Of the survivors, the sailors took passage north to sail on the next available ship. Some of the passengers desired to continue on to the New World while others only wanted to find passage back to England. Without home or employ, and the loss of his son, Walter was too stunned to make a decision. Mariah saw a God-sent treasure and prodded her husband to take advantage of the remarkable service Walter could provide; he would teach François and the children to behave in a civilized manner, and Walter's wife would help her to be a true lady.

Mariah watched from the lower veranda near the kitchen entrance as the six approached, aware how Jean-Paul, despite seeming in deep conversation, surreptitiously looked at Cirano's youngest sister and a cousin playing with the younger children on the grass in front of the house. The girls paused long enough to smile, whisper to one another, and giggle.

Good morning, dear, Mariah greeted as François stepped onto the veranda and kissed her golden cheek. The dream still nagged, continuing a disquieting feeling, but she held it in, determined to keep her husband within sight as she had all morning.

Good morning, mama, Jean-Paul said, planting a kiss on her cheek before plopping down in a chair next to hers at the rectangular table.

You came home rather late last night, Mariah said to him.

He seemed to stall an answer, the smile disintegrating, and then said, Sorry. I lost track of the time. His countenance became more somber.

There was no moon last night because of the approaching storm. It's not safe to travel in the dark.

Papa already spoke to that. My horse has excellent eyes. I just let him follow the trail. So, how was the party for the new governor?

It was wonderful. We danced, and danced, and danced until I thought my feet would fall off, she said, And the new governor is very handsome and so courtly.

François grunted.

You don't like him, papa? Jean-Paul said.

I can not say that, but there is something I am unable to put a finger on. Time will tell.

He comes from a family well-placed in Spain, Mariah said.

And is sure everyone knows it, François replied. Perhaps that arrogance is what bothers me. François chuckled. He didn't handle the appearance of Ojos Oídos very well.

I saw. His appearance was a surprise. He seldom attends such things, Mariah said.

What happened? Jean-Paul asked.

Sr. Ojos Oídos appeared in formal uniform. I think it is the first time he wore it in years.

That's not his real name, Luis said. It is Sr. Cardona. He told me.

Yes. He is called Ojos Oídos because he is the eyes and ears of the governor and King. He is a descendant of King Ferdinand of Aragon, a Grandee, and a Knight of the Order of Santiago. Very powerful. Very influential.

Then why is he on this little rock in the middle of the ocean? Was he exiled? Luis continued.

He choses to not be involved in the politics and intrigue that surrounds and fills King's court.

Isn't Alessandro something like a knight? Luis said.

Yes. He is also a Knight of the Order of Santiago. As Sr. Cardona, he choses to distance himself from all that as well, Mariah said.

Is the new governor a knight? Harvey said.

Do not speak with your mouth full of food, she began. People do not wish to see what happens to your food once it disappears behind the lips, but yes, he is a cavalier, quite important.

It comes by virtue of land purchased by his family whereas our friends belong to the royal family by birth, François explained. However, Gov. Boggues seems a capable administrator. Anything is better than his predecessor.

I thought you liked Governor Hernandez? Jean-Paul said.

He was a likable sort, but no head for business.

He drank far too much and played the game of being a shrewd man, but did it badly, Mariah added. And then there was his son.

The one papa told Mr. Amstedt to shoot?

Harvey! Where did you hear that? his mother scolded.

Nicolás Sandoval heard papa say it, Luis said when Harvey hesitated.

Nicolás Sandoval needs to pay more attention to the sheep and less to other people's conversations. That is not something to brag about.

Well, it's true, isn't it? Harvey continued to push.

Yes, François said. He would have caused a great many deaths at the hands of the French invaders, and I would not allow that, but your mother is correct. Remember what it says in the Bible, do not be a talebearer. Gossip is for old women. That was a command given in time of war and not something to brag about. Now, tell me, how are Cirano's people, Jean-Paul? I have not visited the village for too long.

They are well.

You have been spending a lot of time there. Is there someone in particular you are visiting? his mother said.

Harvey was about to open his mouth, but Luis poked his ribs with an elbow. Do not speak with your mouth filled with food.

Jean-Paul hoped neither parent could see the heat rising to his cheeks and put his face toward his plate to shovel in more food and conceal it. I like being with them.

It is good to have someone his own age to play with, Mariah said.

Following a leisurely breakfast, Walter supervised the boys in clearing the table. Mariah joined with Melissa at one end of the front veranda where she could keep a watch on her men and sew, while Melissa taught the older girls at an adjacent table.

François, Jean-Paul, along with Luis, Harvey, and Jeremiah came under the gentleman's tutelage at the far end of the veranda. She was proud of her men. Their reading skills were rapidly improving and their penmanship beautiful. That Walter used the Bible as the teaching text greatly pleased Mariah; her husband was slowly becoming a God-fearing man.

The sun had hit its zenith when the sound of splashing water turned their heads to the stream where a troop of soldiers crossed and approached the