Fathom: Prince of Pirates

By Michael Anthony Adrio

Captain Puca, the worlds most notorious pirate, is sailing to Volcano Island in search of Shamys ship.

He is determined to find the mythical treasure that has eluded him for so long.

However, the British establishment and the Barbary corsairs have other plans. Both have their reasons for wanting the captain dead. Both will do whatever it takes to bring him to justice.

In this adventure, the captain will need all his wits about him if he is to avoid the hangmans noose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524665616

Michael Anthony Adrio

Michael Anthony Adrio graduated from Manchester University with a masters in pharmacy in 2002. He is the author of The White Pawn and The Blue Triangle Club. He lives in Galicia, Spain, with his wife, Laura, and their two children, Alex and Bea, and their trusty companion Costa.

Book preview

The Royal Phantom

*     *     *

C aptain Shore was washing his face by the bay window when a loud knock shook his cabin. Slowly he raised his head from the wooden bowl and turned to squint at the door. The cold water that stung his eyes couldn’t hide the anger of the early morning intrusion.

Come forth.

Mr Fleet wore an apprehensive frown.

Sorry to bother you sir. But there’s something that needs your attention.

Can’t it wait? asked the captain as he reached for the towel that rested on the edge of the desk.

No. I’m afraid not, sir.

Captain Shore reluctantly followed his first mate out of the cabin up to the poop deck.

Over there sir.

Mr Fleet’s outstretched arm pointed to a small white dot that dissected the horizon.

Captain Shore draped the towel over his naked shoulders, grabbed the spyglass, and swung it around. The early morning fog had already lifted. He immediately spotted the problem, a ship which looked distinctly British donning a white flag.

Damn.

Captain Shore knew he had no option. At sea a white flag shouldn’t be ignored under any circumstances, even when your cargo is as important as it is.

What would you like us to do Captain?

Mr Fleet was far less anxious now that he had burdened his boss with the problem.

Swing by and offer assistance, but make sure all the men are armed first. We don’t want any nasty little surprises.

Captain Shore was fully aware of the so-called Dunkirk pirates who with the unofficial blessing of the Spanish monarch carried out commercial raids in and around the English Channel.

Yes sir.

*     *     *

Dark murky water, the kind where creatures dwell that are never seen, and a longboat separated the two ships. The double banked men that floated up and down in the boat had no idea that directly below them there were fifty feisty men swimming in the opposite direction, and neither did Captain Shore.

From the poop deck he and Mr Fleet watched on with trepidation as the rowing boat approached its destination. He was concerned that nobody on the ship had stirred despite the repeated calls. Reluctantly he had agreed to send half a dozen midshipmen over to inspect the ship.

Any sudden movement then blow them to smithereens.

The HMS Admiral dwarfed the brigantine with the white flag in every aspect, size, fire power, decks, sails and masts being some of the more obvious differences. That however didn’t worry Captain Pùca. He like his merry band of men was an excellent swimmer, an exceptional climber and an audacious fighter.

One by one he and his men surfaced on the port side of the HMS Admiral like tiny air bubbles. Each man with a large dagger knife firmly gripped between his teeth and a tight black headscarf wrapped over his head.

They then proceeded to crawl carefully and quietly up the hull until they reached the gunwale. There they waited patiently for the go-ahead.

Captain Pùca, the world’s most notorious pirate, peered through a gun port with a glint in his eye. His intense turquoise eyes were surprised by the number of soldiers crouched down below the starboard gunwale. Clearly the booty on this ship was far more important than he’d anticipated.

Slowly he lowered his arm to let his men know it was time to strike. Fifty half-naked men dressed only in black knee length breeches quietly climbed over the gunwale, then without hesitation or fear they charged toward the opposite side of the galleon. There they let rip with their knives before any of the soldiers could turn to retaliate.

The struggle was admirable, but futile. Within a matter of minutes the deck was tarnished with bloody soldiers and the odd half naked pirate here and there.

Captain Shore was one of the few survivors. He had fought well and killed a couple of pirates in the process before finally succumbing to the swashbuckling sword skills of Captain Pùca.

Hoorah, hoorah, hoorah.

The crew of The Phantom were rapturous with their captain. Yet again they’d successfully raided another ship.

Now it was time to enjoy the booty.

*     *     *

Crash, bang, wallop.

Every pirate stood outside the captain’s cabin could guess what was happening inside. The distinctive sound of wood shattering and metal slamming against the walls was a good indicator of The Captain’s foul mood. His search had proved fruitless and he was furious to think that there was no gold, jewellery, diamonds or precious stones to share out amongst the crew.

Where’s t’ cap’n?

The malice in his words flew out of the cabin almost as fast as he did. His face was the same colour as Captain Shore’s bloody uniform.

Where’s t’ booty?

What treasure?

Captain Shore and the three other survivors who had hidden in the hull like cowards during the struggle had been lined up in front of the main mast with their wrists bound behind their backs.

All four looked petrified. All four were petrified. All four had good reason to be petrified. They all knew the rumour that Captain Pùca only ever left one man alive so that said person could spread the word amongst other landlubbers that he was the meanest pirate to ever sail the seas.

Don’t be coy wit’ me, me lad, or I’ll feed ye tongue t’ rats.

We don’t have any treasure on board.

Why so many stiffs?

Rigor mortis had already crept aboard and smothered the British soldiers.

This ship belongs to King Charles.

Arrrgh, every ship on t’ open seas belongs t’ Charlie Boy.

This is the HMS Admiral, his personal ship, a gift from the King of Spain.

Captain Shore wasn’t one of the six people who knew the whole truth about the Spanish galleon. That it had in fact been a Trojan horse, a way for King Felipe, or rather his chief military advisor the Duke of Lerma, to spy on the British. The Gonzalez family was the first entire family to be sent abroad to spy even though the two countries weren’t at war, officially.

Captain Pùca casually spun around to face his men. The golden fang glittered in his mischievous smile as he considered what he’d just heard. The opportunity to kill two birds with one stone was too good to miss.

There was a large tattoo of a smiling skull with a black head scarf on and a black eye patch covering his back. The skull lay above a cross constructed from a cutlass and boarding axe. Smoke was drifting away from the end of the long Colombian cigar that was stuck out of the skull’s mouth. The scar the tattoo was intended to cover was only visible from close up.

Did ye hear that me hearties?

Aye, aye, Cap’n, roared the crew with laughter.

They all hated the king with a passion. For over a decade now they’d longed for an opportunity like this, a chance to shove two fingers up at the British establishment, and make it personal.

If that be t’ case, then me thinks we ought t’ keep her. Mr Gash, send T’ Phantom down t’ Davy Jones’ locker.

But Cap’n.

Mr Gash, the ship’s first mate, had grown to love The Phantom like a distant memory. So he wasn’t too keen on sending her to the bottom of the sea, to the place where dead pirates go.

No buts. And send someone t’ find me usual. This calls fer a swig.

Without being prompted a young cabin boy called Tom Fletcher scarpered off to search the ship for some grog.

Arrrgh, what shall we do wit’ ye?

The Captain said as he turned to face the line-up again.

The four prisoners were rippling like the English Channel. The gravity of the situation had well and truly hit home. A man capable of stealing from the king of England, ruler of over half the world, would be capable of anything.

What be ye profession?

The man on the right hand side of the line stuttered his response. His fate was already inscribed in his eyes, and he knew it too.

I’m a gunman.

Plank fer ye, matey. No need fer more gunmen.

The man was promptly ushered toward the plank by Bug, the Swedish twin with the chunk of ear missing. There his hands were cut free before being poked off the end. The first splash brought a boisterous round of cheers from the crew.

Ye?

I’m a doctor, said the second man. Surely a doctor would be a good addition to any crew he had foolishly thought.

We be pirates, not ol’ wenches.

He too was escorted off the plank to tread water, his rough hands a dead giveaway for the Captain. A second round of cheers sharply followed a second splash.

Ye?

Cook.

The slimmest person in the line-up coughed a response in a deep husky voice.

Arrrgh, ye can stay. Our last cook drowned. We tossed him into t’ Caribbean after a bout o’ belly wrenchin’.

Captain Shore proudly raised his chin and puffed out his chest. In the face of fate he didn’t want to show any weakness. Although his false grin didn’t show it he was ecstatic for the young cook. He knew that despite the fact he had failed in his the mission all wasn’t lost.

Do you know who I am? I’m Captain Shore, the king’s head of secur……

Captain Pùca had grabbed the man in the blood red uniform by the throat.

Pipe down, or I’ll slit ye throat.

You’re making a big mistake. When the king finds out about this he’ll hunt you down like a dog.

With his free hand the Captain grabbed the dagger off Smudge. The one-eyed pirate who had just stepped forward then proceeded to rip Captain Shore’s uniform open. The sight of a white hairless chest provoked another round of boisterous cheers.

You’ll hang for this. I promise you.

Silence.

This time a much firmer grip ensured the Captain’s orders were obeyed.

Captain Pùca be t’ name and piracy be t’ game. Ye can tell yar king that if ye e’er see him again.

Then with two swift strokes like some flamboyant conductor he carved a large P on the captain’s chest.

Arrrgh, that’ll do nicely. Wouldn’t want ye t’ forget me name now, would we?

Captain Pùca was pleased with his trademark calling card, and so were the crew judging from their laughter.

This ship ain’t big enough fer two cap’ns.

Captain Shore was still ranting as Bug shoved him along the plank. His words echoing his disbelief at the lack of respect he’d been shown.

You can’t treat me like this. I will have my revenge, mark my wor……………

Captain Pùca watched on in amusement as the English captain plummeted into the sea to join his drenched colleagues. The presence of the king’s head of security on the ship was wrestling with his thoughts. He couldn’t fathom out why he was there given that there was no apparent booty on board. The sinking of The Phantom was never going to be a pleasurable experience. He too had grown very fond of the old girl. Over the years she’d saved their bacon on more occasions than he cared to remember, like that time near Tortuga when it outran four angry Spanish ships.

Nevertheless he was fully aware that there was no room for sentiment in his line of work. He had to live in the present, live for the future, and steer well clear of the past.

The return of the cabin boy snapped him out of his nostalgic daze. In his hands there were two brown bottles of grog, the Captain’s daily tickle. He handed them over and stepped aside.

Captain Pùca strode back over to the main mast and paused.

The crew slowly gathered around him curious to know what he was going to do next.

After taking a large swig he spoke. His words were loud and proud.

me christens this ship T’ Royal Phantom.

The crew were gob smacked to see the Captain smash one of the bottles against the mast. Never before, not even in their wildest dreams, had they seen him waste a bottle of rum.

T’ Royal Phantom be ready fer her maiden voyage.

His words reverberated around the deck as he swaggered off toward his new cabin to down the other bottle. Watching the Phantom, his old lady as he preferred to call her, make its last ever journey wasn’t an affair high on his wish list.

Prior to closing the cabin door he spun around and left Mr Gash with a parting comment. The comment achieved its desired effect and reminded the ship’s first mate of something that had briefly slipped his mind.

Toss t’ British overboard, but keep their uniforms. And don’t forget ’bout me prisoners.

Despite his lack of enthusiasm Mr Gash supervised the sinking. His heart was heavy with sorrow as he watched the men carry out their orders. First they brought the two ships alongside. Then they transferred all the Phantom’s possessions to the new ship, which included the three black hooded prisoners that had been abducted from Stavanger, the tiny village situated on the west coast of Norway. After that they sailed the new Royal Phantom to a safe distance, before finally blasting the old Phantom to bits. The accuracy and brutality of the demi-culverin cannons meant only one round of shots was needed to give her the burial she deserved.

*     *     *

From under the doorway the new cook stared in disbelief. How anyone was meant to prepare fifty meals for fifty hungry pirates three times a day in such a small dingy hole was beyond reckoning. The galley was not much bigger than a garden shed, and full from top to bottom with clutter. Four large weathered barrels lined the back wall beyond the cupboards creating a fortress effect around the small wooden table that was nailed down in the centre of the room. All the barrels were sealed bar one in the right hand corner. A little furry visitor with a long thin tale, who wasn’t in the slightest bit phased by the intrusion, was making the most of it, gnawing even more holes into the thick sea biscuits.

After a big sigh the cook stepped into the room and closed the door to, ensuring that she was alone. She then removed her white headscarf and threw it at the open barrel.

Shuhhhh.

Once more the rat popped its head up. Only this time it was more irritated than it was curious because the scarf that had just passed overhead had collided with the rim and fallen into the barrel narrowly missing its tail. So after giving the intruder with the short jagged red hair an angry stare it climbed out of the barrel and scurried off to vanish behind one of the barrels in the opposite corner.

Princess Beatrice’s first chore was obvious from all the clutter. Fallen towers of filthy bowls covered the table and the surrounding floor. Remnants of spoilt meals soggy and battered lay scattered around, and a rancid smell like that of sweaty feet polluted the humid air. The smell was coming from the stale water that half-filled the wooden bucket under the table.

She glanced down at the bucket and sighed again. She was worried, very worried. It wasn’t the horrid state of the galley that bothered her, or her lack of culinary skills. Keeping fifty hungry pirates happy would be difficult, but not half as hard as keeping her identity a secret. She knew that it would be fatal if anybody found out she was the daughter of King Firtal of Denmark, and she was on her way to marry Prince James, the future king of England.

*     *     *

The midday sun dangled low in the blue cloudless sky. All below, on the anchored galleon, could smell her presence on their skin. Waist coats and linen shirts had been removed and most of the pirates were either sat around talking or sunbathing, enjoying the lull before the storm.

A dozen or so of the younger pirates had jumped overboard and were doing their best to drown one another in the Atlantic Ocean. The nearby beach was less than a stone’s throw away so they now knew where they were heading that night.

Higher, a bit more.

Bug, the beefy blond twin with the large chunk of ear missing, spoke with great conviction.

Smudge, the black one-eyed pirate with the fat bottom lip, and another pirate with a long face and a long pony tail called Gee, were precariously balanced on the gunwale of the main deck holding a thin stick of wood aloft about their chests. They raised it up another couple of inches.

A beauty says ye can’t make it.

Slug, the twin with two normal ears, mocked as he stared up at the height of the stick. He knew gravity wouldn’t allow it.

Make it two, and yer on.

Arrrgh, two ’tis then.

Slug handed Stumpy over to his twin brother, and stepped back into the group.

Stumpy, the goby three-foot pirate with the wooden leg, was mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead. It wasn’t the first time one of the twins had used him as a caber.

Bug grabbed him by his arms, tossed him over his shoulder and stepped closer to the gunwale. He then spun around so that his back was facing the stick and adjusted his footing while he firmly cupped Stumpy’s feet in his hands.

The small cluster of pirates that had crowded around to watch the toss were doing their best to egg him on. More than half of them wanted him to fail, while the rest were just happy with the thought that Stumpy might come to some harm.

After a couple of deep breaths Bug lowered his knees and tensed his arms. He was ready to win the bet, ready to show his brother that he was the stronger of the two. But best of all, he was ready to toss the annoying little Stumpy over his shoulder, over the stick, over the gunwale, into the warm sea below.

Slug watched the toss with a confident smile. There was no doubt in his mind that his brother had raised the stick too high this time. So he wasn’t at all surprised to see Stumpy fly through the air, clip the stick with his knee, and Smudge in the process, before making his way down to the ocean.

Smudge swaggered from side to side briefly and grabbed thin air before plummeting over board too.

A roar of laughter boomed around the galleon. Most of the pirates were happy to see Slug win the bet. He was the more compassionate twin.

Bug shook his head as he smiled at his triumphant brother. He hated losing bets, especially to him.

Ciao bro.

A quick kiss of his signet ring, two steps, and a sideward jump over the gunwale and he too was on his way down to the water like a bomb.

Slug was just as quick to follow. They were all keen to hit the sea and feel the warm sea water on their hot sweaty bodies. Like his twin Slug had to kiss his lucky ring before making the leap.

*     *     *

Not all of the crew were resting and enjoying the afternoon off like Captain Pùca had ordered. An old pirate with crooked straw-like arms and bad breath called Dog, and his little gang were up to no good again, rolling dice in a corner of the lower deck, a vice the Captain had banned at sea due to the number of deaths the inevitable squabbles had caused.

Come on ye beauties.

Dog whispered into his clenched fists after scooping the dice up.

The other three pirates who were huddled around already knew what was coming next. They slyly glanced at one another and shook their heads as they waited patiently for him to carry out his little ritual.

The dice were rubbed between his stiff rubbery palms until they were on the verge of melting. Then they were blown on twice and tossed hard against the hull.

Like all the other unfortunate women who’d ever crossed his path lady luck ensured that his count was no more than he deserved.

7, bleedin’ seven, they be cursed, me swears.

In a temper he jumped up and kicked out at the dice. He had stormed off ranting before the dice had rebounded off the hull and rolled back to where the others were now stood. Their new total was 18 a maximum throw, and the urge to snigger was kerbed by one and all for they knew that there was a good chance he might turn and stab them in the back if they even so much as thought about ridiculing him.

One of the pirates, a short podgy fellow with fat fingers, was quick to kneel down, grab the small stack of coins from the cup, and place them in his waistcoat pocket.

Shift.

Princess Beatrice, or Cook as she was known to the rest of the crew, was shoved from behind and with some considerable force before she had time to react. Bowls that had been stacked in her arms were tossed into the air as she stumbled forward, tripped, and tumbled to the deck.

Her fall was cushioned by the young cabin boy Tom Fletcher. A loud clatter of metal and a pert bum balancing on his knees shook him from his book.

The Princess swiftly stretched out her arm, grabbed her hat, and pulled it back over her head before Tom had time to see her secret.

Are you alright?

I’m fine.

Tom