Keepers of the Conscience

By David K Giordano

The discovery of an ancient ship containing futuristic technology has the potential to be more life-transforming than the computer or the cell phone promising untold riches and power to whoever controls it. The device promises to be a great benefit to mankind . . . or, in the wrong hands, the end of humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David K Giordano
• Release date: Feb 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215162521

Book preview

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dedicated to my parents, Sam and Rose.

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Thanks to . . .

God, for His love, grace, and divine inspiration.

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Debbie, my lovely wife, who put in many long hours assisting me in bringing this project to fruition. I could not have done it without you.

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My brothers Tony and Chris and friends Rick and Gary, for all their helpful input in tying up the loose ends.

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To James Pohle for all his help with computer and formatting issues.

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And finally . . . special thanks to my son, Justin. Your belief in me and your unrelenting push propelled me to go on when I was ready to give up. You now owe me a hundred bucks.

Prologue

My position on this ship of pirates, the Fancy, is the ship's surgeon. I am here by more a matter of fate than of choice. Fate, I am now convinced, had me here to witness that shooting star. Not just any shooting star. This one flamed and sizzled across the darkened heavens and changed course. Indeed, this twist of science and logic was meant for me to see. And through my writing, so shall you....

***

It's January 17th, in the year of our Lord, 1724. I'm here aboard the sloop First Hope bound for San Juan, Puerto Rico, on a mission to bring hospital supplies and medicine to the island. Up on deck, tending to the wounds of a crewman, I look out over a brooding sea to the blanket of fog filling in the distance. Like a ghost she appears out of nowhere then disappears back into the fog-a ship under full sail, here and yet... not here.

There... a hundred yards to starboard, a schooner, shouts the lookout up in the crow's nest.

Again, she appears, emerges from the fog, and sends us a distress signal. She's flying the Spanish ensign and continues the charade until we sail up beside her to assist. In a move of evil trickery, her minions lower the Spanish colors and haul up her black pirate flag with a red bloodied skeleton emblazoned on it. Her cannons are brought to bear and fire a broadside at us, splintering the rail behind me. Their crew of pirate cutthroats swarms onto our deck. Outnumbered, and with limited weapons they easily overtake us.

Those of us still alive are brought before the demented renegade captain of the Fancy, Edward Low, and given the choice: Serve me or die. Most decide to serve, however, a few do not.

I am one of the few who do not.

With a knife to my throat, he questions me with breath reeking of rum. What skill have you, swine?

I hesitate and then feel his knife cut into my skin.

Ship's surgeon, I've also served time as a sailing master.

He spares my life and that of the boatswain as well. With the blade of a cutlass poking at my ribs, I sign the ship's articles of pirate brotherhood. Our captain, Richard Hance Brown, is bound to the mast and given thirty lashes for refusing to cooperate. His back, ripped and torn bears resemblance to jagged, dripping red stripes of blood. Through all his agony and torture, he holds his own and speaks not one word, but instead, spits into the pirate captain's face. Thereupon Ned Low, infuriated by his resistance lops off his lips, places them in boiling oil on a hot skillet, and sears them before his very eyes. Blood rains down from his chin coloring his torso and the deck below in streaks of dark crimson.

Tell me what I want to know, Low raves in a fury. Talk or you'll eat your own, damn you. Where is it? Where? Where's the treasure?

He remains silent, resolute.

Ned Low signals one of his burly, tattooed crewmen.

Hold his bloody mouth open, Mister Hollar.

As he does, Low pours the boiling oil and body parts down his throat. Our captain writhes in pain then drops to the deck and passes out. Thereupon Captain Low draws his musket and shoots him through the head. And with just one hand, he grabs him by the hair and drags our dead captain across the deck over the rail, and feeds him to the fish. Red streaks of blood mark the last route our captain took across the ship's deck and out to the sea below. After witnessing such barbaric behavior I almost think death might be preferable to linking myself with such a vile commander and his crew of miscreants, to whom it is a sport to do mischief, drink, curse, and swear in open defiance to God and Heaven.

On impulse, I jump the ship's rail and make a swim for it. Being within a few miles of a chain of islands to the east of San Juan near St. Thomas, my chances are slim at best. Still, I reckon this choice is better than the alternative. I presume if I could make the swim and get help, then perchance my crewmates aboard the First Hope might return to their families, alive and unharmed. The swim is rough. I need to get used to the pulse of the sea, timing my strokes with the ever-pumping ride of the waves. I taste salt but keep pushing on. Time is losing its grasp as I am fast succumbing to a hungry sea. All manner of thought rushes through my mind in a scenic flurry of waves. Near collapse, I turn, back-float, and focus my salt-burned eyes on the island of Culebra. I'm within a mile of her green, hilly shore. I flip over and with new hope, resume my swim. As I get closer to shore the sea gets rougher and my swim that much more difficult. Now I can only see the shoreline when I top these breaking waves. I swallow more of the Atlantic as I swim on. And then I start to hear voices calling me. Voices I don't recognize. I think my mind is playing tricks on me when I feel something touching my back. I dismiss the idea at once and then feel it again. And again, come the voices. Suddenly, like a fish, I'm caught as a rope finds its way around my neck. Grabbing the rope with both hands I fight to free myself and kick harder yet make no progress whatsoever. Too tired to fight, I'm pulled aboard a longboat and face the wrath of my captors as they bring me back to the waiting Fancy.

A fist connects with my jaw as one of the four men aboard the boat spits in my face.

Stop fightin' or I'll drown ya with my own two hands.

The two men manning the oars just laugh and keep on rowing. And there ain't no use tryin' to get away, spouts a bald man with a beard. Aye... 'cause like it or not...Low gets ya back. Perchance ya being a doctor of some sort, the only thing that saves your sorry ass. If I were you, mate, I wouldn't try escaping again or next time Low will skin ya like a fish. So just do as you're told and ya might live to see another day, privy?

Yeah, privy, I answer, massaging my aching jaw.

Once on deck, I'm tied to the rigging and given thirty lashes for my transgressions. The pain is unbearable . . . excruciating! Darkness fills my mind as I pass out time and again. As a warning to other deserters, Captain Low unsheathes his cutlass and with a twist, pokes out my left eye.

So here I am, Christopher Bates, reluctant surgeon, and passenger aboard the pirate ship the Fancy.

PART I

The VAMPIRE

Chapter 1

July 17, 1851

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What the hell am I doing here? What was I thinking? This is hardly worth it. I try to calm myself but cannot.

Staring out over rolling breakers on a brooding sea, I'm scared to death. The Atlantic's not in a good mood today, and it's not a good day to be doing this. It's just too damn windy and rough. Wearing lead shoes doesn't exactly buoy my confidence either. But I'd made my bed, now it was time to sleep in it.

I had indeed signed on to be a diver for the mysterious ship the Vampire. I have no one to blame for that but myself. Now I struggle hard not to reveal my fear to my fellow shipmates.

With a firm grip, the captain shakes my hand. Good luck Mister Denton, and good hunting.

Aye, Captain. I struggle to hide my feelings of apprehension as he lowers the heavy copper diving helmet down over my head. It's been six years since I'd last gone diving, but I'd never dove in waters so rough. The sky looks angry, and the clouds are on the run.

I take a last look at the swaying deck of the Vampire and lumber down the ladder to the surface of the sea and that other world below. I'm welcomed with a crash as a wave nearly washes me off the lower rung of the ladder. Sea spray forces its way into the collar of my helmet, and I can both taste and smell the salty charm of the Atlantic. 

I pause like a statue for what seems an endless moment staring out through the apple-sized sight glass. Shark fins cut the water not far enough away. I look up at the sky one last time and take a deep breath. God help me, I say and step off.

Once under the waves, the contrast between this world and the one above becomes most evident as I gaze at the calm bright blue waters below. Tranquility is the best way to describe it, so unlike the fury above. Things are going to be all right I sense, as my heart rate returns to normal. To my surprise, I realize that I truly do miss this; heaven on earth, all as it should be. The only sound I hear is that of my bubbles racing up in a panic popping to be reunited with their world above.

Serenity has a firm grip on me now. Tethered with an air hose and rope, I am still connected with the world above. Through this umbilical cord, I breathe air pumped down to me from the ship overhead. I marvel at the sight of fish that pull their air right from the sea and can only dream of the day when man invents apparatus to allow us such freedom. Ahead I see some whitish-beige encrusted objects poking up from the sandy bottom. Fish are abundant here, darting in and out of this underwater neighborhood, their colors exquisite.

Turning to the right, I see the thrashed remains of an early shipwreck. Arched beams like ribs outline what's left of her ravaged hull. Broken masts and other debris fans out in all directions, giving witness to an angry sea. As I move in closer, I see what looks like jars in a heap alongside an overturned cannon. The jars, some broken and some not are made of clay with decorative designs painted on them. Somewhere in the Orient would be my guess as to their origin.

To the west, an army of sea snakes resembling marine cobras peer curiously toward this intruder in their watery domain. Like sentinels, they stand watch over this underwater graveyard. On my approach, one by one they slip into their seafloor home. They remind me of prairie dogs, the way they pop in and out of their holes.

A dulling cloud clears the sun, allowing brilliant spikes of sunlight to penetrate this gloomy scene. Colors come to life illuminated through this window of water and then fade as the clouds feather the sky.

Returning to the task for which I was employed, I spent the rest of my dive searching the remnants of this doomed ship for a long-lost treasure trove of wealth. I don't find anything of real value at first, but as I labor on I spot something that piques my interest, a chest or some box-like thing poking out of the sand. I stir up a cloud of silt as I dig it out of its sandy burial plot. I struggle with its rusted lock, but it proves to be no match for a ship's ballast stone I find nearby. I pry with one hand wielding a knife, while my other hand pummels away at it with the heavy stone until the lock breaks free of its wooden box. All the while my imagination runs wild with images of diamonds and gold. In the end, all I found was a chest of shoes.

I return to the rope ladder tethered to the Vampire empty-handed, but not without hope. For this area teems with shipwrecks as far as the eye can see. Tomorrow is another day and there'll be more time then to continue the search.

As I climb to the surface, I realize the weather has eased up some with flat seas overhead. Breaking into the air world I'm removed from the buoyant nature of the sea and immediately become more aware of the heavy, cumbersome diving gear I wear. Saving a total loss, I do manage to haul up tonight's dinner: a large sack full of lobster, scallops, and clams.

Later in the evening aboard the black schooner Vampire, the cook brings wine and our seafood dinners up to the main deck. The scent is tantalizing and arrives long before the dish. It's a gorgeous starlit night with a light salty breeze out of the west.

Our host, Captain Robert Briggs himself, fills all the crewmember's wineglasses and then makes a jovial toast. To health, prosperity, and good fortune.

We swallow down the warm brew as the captain begins pouring out another. By his manners thus far he seems to be a man of his word with a keen wit and a good sense of humor. But our voyage and Robert Briggs himself are indeed both mysteries. That in itself is the main reason I, Mark Denton, decided to be a part of this mysterious journey.

***

It all started on the tenth day of July 1851. I was a red-haired rookie journalist for a newspaper in Boston. To date, all my writings were a mundane collection of biographies and stories used as fill pages in the local newspaper. For months I had searched for just the right story, something that was fresh, something that a reader just couldn't put down. Then, on the evening of July tenth, just that happened, but I had no idea of what I was in for, and still, do not...

That evening, three hours past sunset, I left the local pub after a few friends and I shared a few tankards and laughs. As I often do, I strolled the waterside along the wharf, glancing at the wide expanse of sea beyond. A ship with a peculiar name stopped me dead in my tracks. She was being moored to the wharf when I caught a glimpse of her name. Vampire in bold block letters graced the front of her bow. Vampire painted in gold with droplets resembling blood dripping from the letters, fresh as if recently bled.

I could hardly believe my eyes. Who would name a ship Vampire? Who, and why? For what reason or purpose? A name like this was most peculiar to say the least-damn strange.

Below the bowsprit, a frightening figurehead displayed a gruesome sight. Heads, one connected to the next, pointed out from the bow of the ship, six in all, each with its own expression of death. The heads, each seemed to be growing a neck and head out of the hair of the one preceding it. One head had eyes open, vacant, as in death. Another with eyes closed. The next head wore an expression of terror. From that, one with the eyes and mouth clearly sewn shut. Spouting out of that, one was of Medusa, with snakes wriggling from her scalp. Farthest out, was a vampire's head with sharp fangs dripping blood. I could hardly believe my eyes. Just the thought of it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and sends icicles down my spine.

My attention turned to the two crewmen who were busy tying the mooring lines to the pier. They both looked like walking dead, with pale gray complexions on lifeless faces. They moved slowly, machine-like as if drones of a much higher power. Then a tall man with piercing eyes, wearing a black suit and cape, posted a sign on a post. Only after he returned to the Vampire did I approach and read the sign, which said:

WANTED

DEEP-SEA DIVERS

PAY = TWICE NORMAL DIVE PAY

DESTINATION – DISCREET

MEET HERE JULY 11 10:00 PM

Destination-discreet, what does that imply? Was this some illegal venture, or was there more to it than that?

Twice normal dive pay? Like bait to a clueless fish. No doubt, this was odd. But it was, exactly, the type of story I'd been looking for. Like the clueless fish, I was hooked. Deep-sea divers, now that was a problem. I was no deep-sea diver. All I knew was that they wore leather suits, brassy metal helmets with sight glass, and heavy lead or cement shoes. How was I to accomplish this? The only diving I ever did was about six years ago in the Mediterranean Sea For some temporary employment I used to haul up sponges, but that was breath-hold diving, not the same as with underwater breathing apparatus.

Depending on men and an air hose tied to a ship . . . that scared the hell out of me. And where were they going, and, for what purpose? How would I pull this off? Fake it....

***

July 11, 1851, 10:00PM

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Arriving at the meeting place on the wharf, I counted seven other men, all discussing the hidden meaning of the mysterious sign.

Three of them were in a heated argument, while two seemed to be talking to themselves. Upon closer examination, I discovered one of the quiet ones was indeed female. She seemed deep in thought and had an unmistakable look of sadness in her eyes. She was not what I'd call beautiful, but she was attractive nonetheless. The woman was obviously adventurous, or she would not be here. Maybe she had other reasons all her own, who knew? The general topic of conversation turned toward the ship, each of us looking for answers none had. Silence cut the air as the tall man dressed in black stepped off the gangplank. No one from the Vampire followed him. He turned and walked toward us. He was a head above six feet tall, had long jet-black hair tied back in a tail, was handsome, and with eyes that could cut steel. His complexion was near ashen, and he moved with a fluidness that was almost surreal. Having our attention, he spoke. Questions, gentlemen?

Where are we going? An old Negro man asked.

I can't tell you that, he said.

We all stared at each other, dumbfounded.

What are we diving for? a heavy