The Beasts of Boggart's Boneyard - The Pearldiver's Adventures #2
Being one of the Pearldiver's Adventures; a story of Sea Dogs, Swashbuckling, and Derring-do.
Good day to you, dear readers. Today I come to you with another story of seafaring adventure, one that sees the return of a character I wrote for back in July, Captain Molo Pearldiver. “The Beasts of Boggart’s Boneyard” is the second entry in what will be an ongoing series I’ll be intermittently returning to while I work on my serialized fiction: The Pearldiver’s Adventures. (Night of the Black Ships was my first story featuring Molo.) These will be something of a break from the more darkly tinged work I usually write, focusing on presenting piratical adventure tales full of wit, grit, gumption, and derring-do. Do note that, much like the pulp fiction of the early 20th century, these stories aren’t being written in a chronological order. If the idea for a Pearldiver’s Adventure takes me, then I’ll write it, simple as that.
On that note, Molo is a protagonist that’s near and dear to my heart. This isn’t because he’s been with me for a long time like Gaiur has, but because he’s a creation of Heavy, one of my very best friends. (Whom I wrote about on my second substack, Awkward Realities.) These stories came about simply because Molo decided to set up shop in my head. As such, these stories are for Heavy as much as they are for me. That said, it’s my hope you’ll all enjoy them as well. Now then, onto the tale.
If you’d like to read the rest of The Pearldiver’s Adventures, you may find them in the index:
The Pearldiver's Adventures, Index
It’s said that of the men who sail the Sea of Swords, only the boys don’t know Dagger Bay. Famously founded by Blue-eye Bolton, believed to be a Riverran Navy man turned world renown pirate captain, it began as a simple hideaway for Bolton and his fleet. That hideaway soon became a pirate town which would eventually grow into the most infamous port of free trade on the high seas.
Built upon a craggy jungle island three-day’s sail from the cliffs of the Gold Coast, the hurry-scurry port made good use of the very bay for which it was named. While a moniker such as “Dagger Bay” likely brought to mind images of choppy and violent waters, in reality the bay was wonderfully calm. Instead the “dagger” portion of the name was taken from the rocky outcroppings which enclosed the bay in a near-circular crescent. These jutting formations were sharp, and careless vessels were prone to being dashed against them thanks to the rough currents outside.
The rotted skeleton of an old corsair, claimed to be the flagship of Bolton’s most hated rival, Skeleton John Brüstel, remained skewered on the rocks next to the Bay’s sea gate. The Highfather only knew how many years it was stuck up there. Its wooden frame had long baked in the dry sun, and though it stayed dark where the water still soaked it, the rest had turned pale and gray. The old corsair was both a landmark and a warning, easily visible from the sea and just about any spot in the town. To those outside, it warned not only of the dangers of the rocks, but the fates of those fool enough to try and attack the well defended port.
To those within, that same warning extended to anyone who might think of bringing violence in with them. Despite the name, murder and knifework weren’t welcome in Dagger Bay. Breaking of this law would result in a swift execution, and the corpses of killers which hung both from the sea gate and the dead ship’s hull were a constant reminder of that. Anyone fool enough to attempt taking a life outside of duly sanctioned duels, complete with public witnesses, could expect a trip to the reaper’s side by gallows, guillotine, or firing squad.
Of course, this wasn’t to say instances of violence were rare in the Bay. Quite the opposite was true, as Captain Molo Pearldiver found himself reminded of when he got caught up in a brawl with a burly buccaneer on an early summer afternoon.
“I’ve got him, Captain!” cried Captain Molo’s first mate, Francis Arnold Wuthers. Wuthers was a tall and wiry man who was stronger than his lanky form let on. He’d grabbed the angry pirate from the back, slipping his right arm under the bruiser’s, and his left around the man’s thick neck.
Drunkenness gave the angry and dark-haired Riverran pirate a seemingly endless reserve of strength, though, and being grabbed from behind by the slender sailor did nothing to better his mood. Swinging out with his left, the pirate caught Molo in the jaw with the back of his meaty fist. Then he reached back and managed to get hold of Wuthers’ shirt. Throwing his weight forward and down, he pitched Wuthers over his shoulder and right on top of Molo, knocking the wind out of them both. Throwing his hands up with a shout of victory, he spat on the both of them as his crewmates swarmed in to take advantage. By the time the brutes left, they’d made off with both of their coin purses, their boots, Wuthers’ pants and silver buckled belt, and a satchel full of Riverran bonds which Molo planned to use to restock the galley of his ship, The Lady Florenz.
“Shouldn’t have picked a fight with them, Captain,” Wuthers grumbled as they sauntered back to the ship.
Molo was offended by that. “What do you mean I shouldn’t have picked a fight with them?” he snapped, his normally honey-smooth voice made harsh by a chokehold he’d been stuck in before Wuthers jumped in.
In comparison to his first mate, Molo was stocky and a bit on the rotund side. Where Wuthers was lanky, gaunt, and would’ve looked pale if his skin weren’t made swarthy by years in the sun, Molo had the tawny skin and black hair of the South Islanders. He was a little on the short side, too, and his slightly round appearance gave him a look of youthfulness that mixed strangely with the bristly moustache and trim goatee he wore. Taken together, his appearance earned him the once-derogatory moniker of “Captain Otter.” However, through wit, charisma, and time, the young Captain managed to turn that insult into a much more stately nickname that was far more often spoken in love and friendship; “the Prince of Otters.”
Unfortunately, with his lip split, his eye swelling shut, and both his funds and boots freshly stolen, the Prince of Otters appeared more the pauper today.
Wuthers sighed and shrugged, his hands clapping against his bare thighs as they fell back to his sides. “You shouldn’t have sung that bawdy song about the Riverran queen,” he said.
Molo threw his hands up in frustration. “Oh do pardon me for not expecting a bunch of Highfather-be-damned pirates to be loyalists!” he countered.
It was rare for the normally jovial merchant Captain to have his mood befouled like this, though it was rarer that folks picked fights with him over tavern songs and rarer still that such brawls ended with him robbed and humiliated. Molo wasn’t the most physically imposing man out there, nor was he the most handsome, but he still knew his way around a fight. He probably could’ve held his own if that burly buccaneer and his posse of picaroons hadn’t ambushed them on their way out of The Grinning Gar, but they did ambush him, and that cost him dearly.
Wuthers made another comment on the situation. Molo would find himself unable to remember what it was later on, but whatever it had been, it was enough to turn warm anger hot. With fists trembling and cheeks burning from both frustration and drink, he wheeled on his first mate and lashed out at him with the first move that came to mind. It just so happened that move was a girlish slap across the face.
“I don’t want to hear another word from you on the matter considering you couldn’t even keep your trousers at the end of it!” Molo snapped.
As soon as he said it, both men looked down at Wuthers’ waist. He’d managed to keep his knickers from being yanked off with his pants, albeit just barely. However, because the length of his white cotton shirt reached down below his undergarments, it made him look as if he wasn’t wearing anything down there at all. Embarrassment gave way to humor in that moment, the both of them cracking up at Wuthers’ skinny legs jutting out from beneath the hem of his too-long and too-loose shirt.
Afternoon made way for sunset by the time Molo made it back to The Lady Florenz. A seven-sailed Riverran brigantine, she was an older vessel that was retired by her original owners, a wealthy merchant family which used it as part of their trading fleet. She hadn’t truly been retired, of course. That was the polite parlance that pirates, privateers, and less scrupulous traders like Molo preferred to use when referring to stolen ships which had been resold.
Originally it had been dubbed with the rather wordy appellation; Le Fleur Bleue de Legumé de Florenz. Written in poorly phrased Old Riverran, the name roughly translated to The Blue Flower of Legumé of Florenz. This also revealed the rather unfortunate surname of the family, which meant Bean in the common tongue. Molo wisely had the name changed. Removing its original plates along with all of its powder blue paint, he and his crew resealed the hull in dark varnish and the ship was redubbed.
While Molo and Wuthers were away for the day, the crew had busied themselves with maintaining the ship. Some were reapplying that very same varnish to the hull and deck railings. Others diligently scraped away what barnacles they could reach with chisels and wooden mallets. These were temporary measures in both respects, quick fixes meant to last until he their Captain could rent space in a dry dock at one of the coastal ports so they could properly clean and repair some of the still submerged parts of the hull. Unfortunately, the bonds he planned to exchange for this were no longer in his possession, and he’d have to break that difficult news to the men.
The crew, which comprised fourteen men not including Wuthers and himself, took the news about as well as Molo could hope. Fortunately his was a loyal crew, so while the bad news was received with dismay, the men largely took it in stride. Part of the reason for this was simply due to Molo’s typical generosity as their Captain.
Unlike the crews of most naval vessels, or those working for moneyed merchant fleets, pirates and independent traders like Molo tended to be more generous to their crews when it came to pay and the general respect they were shown. In fact, outside of having the largest cabin, the nicest bed, and ultimately making the final decisions on what they’d sell and where, Captain Molo presented himself as an equal to all the men in his employ. This, much to his surprise at the time, was something he’d long since discovered was true of a good many pirate captains, too, even some of the most infamously brutal ones. When contrasted with the generally low salaries and poor living conditions in the naval or merchant fleets, it was little wonder that crews like Molo’s tended to remain loyal even in the face of hard times and unfortunate circumstances.
Loyal as they were, though, the crew’s worries still needed to be allayed. Their voices cried out in a litany of concern. Phrases such as, “How are we to repair the ship?” or, “Where are we to go with only a half day’s supplies in the galley?” rang out from the murmuring din. However, a single short question was spoken most of all:
“What do we do, Captain?”
Sticking his long, bony fingers into either side of his mouth, a freshly pantalooned Wuthers silenced the crowd with a sharp whistle. Once they’d gone quiet, Molo held up his hands to maintain their silence and hold their attention.
“Our situation’s become dire, I won’t lie to you about that,” he began. “Way I see it, we’ve got two options ahead of us. First, we ration what we’ve got and make for the mainland, where we scrounge up what coin we can to make dock and find us some work. With a bit of luck we might be able to shore up our stores catching fish along the way, but I wouldn’t count on it. Same thing when it comes to restocking our stores, we’d need to find a seller willing to give an advance on whatever we’re shipping so we can buy more supplies.”
The men resumed their uneasy murmurings, but Molo silenced them by raising his hands once more. “Second choice is to find work here in Dagger Bay. Could be dock work, trades work, what-have-you. Whatever it is, we’d need to make enough to keep up rent on the dock, restock our supplies, and keep us all fed while we’re here. Upside is we can bed down in the ship in the meantime, but chances are we won’t find anything that pays well.”
One of the crewmen spoke up; Marco Abate, a ruddy skinned Bertosian with his moustache curled and his dark hair slicked back and tied into a short tail. “Can’t you call in a favor, Captain? Find a friend at the Gar or the Easy Virtue?”
Molo was about to say no when a thought occurred to him. Considering the fight took place right out front chances were he wouldn’t be able to pull any monetary favors at The Grinning Gar. Then again, chances were most of the men there wouldn’t have the money to lend. Money favors weren’t the only sorts of favors he could try to pull, though, and there were a couple blighters who frequented that salty watering hole that still owed him for a bit of aid surreptitiously lent in the recent past. That blackguard Jim Hooch came to mind, and Molo had seen the crusty rat drinking there earlier in the day.
An idea formulated in his head. Hooch and the other dastards like him would never pay a due with coin if they could avoid it, but information and a few extra sword hands? Molo could probably swing that.
The crowd was murmuring again, and Wuthers whistled thrice to try and silence them. “Alright, alright, settle!” Molo called out, waiting for the din to quiet before he continued. “We might have a third option might be on the table, but it’s damned risky. It’d require a lot of grit, a lot of luck, and there’s a good chance some of us might not come back from it.”
Anxious murmurs seeped from the crowd as the crew looked to each other with nervous curiosity. After a couple moments, Marco spoke up again to ask his Captain what he meant.
“I mean we find the dastards that robbed us and take back what’s ours,” Molo said.
This time even Wuthers joined in on the crew’s uncertainty. Looking down at his Captain, he asked, “How’re we going to do that?”
Molo then explained his nascent plan.
Many things could be said about Jim Hooch, but only two were widely known. The first of these was his kill count, which he proudly displayed on a palm-wide bandolier of thick leather worn across an overstuffed and over-fancy red tailcoat. Complete with black cuffs and pants to match them, gold trimmings that included shoulder tassels and spinel studded buttons, and a ruffled white shirt, the sea wolf was dressed to meet every stereotype of a famed pirate captain. The bandolier, with its twenty-and-three hash marks carved into it, was the exception.
The second thing which everyone knew about Jim Hooch was his age, which currently matched the number of hashes carved into his bandolier. Being as young as he was, he was little more than a boy when it came to captaining. A good number of his men were older than him by at least five years, and more than a handful beat him out by ten to fifteen. In the case of his first mate, a dark skinned and dour man from the far-southern savannahs of Telar, Jim’s age was doubled right down to the day.
Molo would’ve expected the Telari to have attempted a mutiny years ago, back when Jim was said to have “inherited” his ship from his old man. The continued loyalty of that dour, rangy reaver, as well as the rest of the crew, spoke volumes to just the sort of forceful presence young Jim Hooch carried with him. The same couldn’t be said of his looks, though.
They were back in The Grinning Gar, seated at a long bench table at the far end of the drinking hall. Seawater occasionally sloshed up through the gaps in the floor planks and the whole space had a dark, dank feel to it. The Gar had been among the first buildings put up in Dagger Bay, and it showed. Built from the reclaimed parts of ships, it was full of weird angles, random curves, gaps, cracks, dampness, and smells. Today, those smells were the intermingled perfumes of cheap rum, watery beer, seawater, and fish guts. As it turned out, the very same pier on which the Gar was built also ended up being the one where the founding freebooters decided to put their fish market.
It was just the sort of decision that frequently made Molo wonder if they did that just to screw with future patrons of the Gar. Likewise, he wondered if Jim had chosen this specific spot in the Gar as a means of further bolstering his image. This space was darkest and dankest. Poorly lit by a single oil lantern hanging from the ceiling, a low flame flickered behind its panels of dust yellowed glass. This, along with the slow swaying caused by the pier’s own gentle rocking, cast everything in long, weird shadows. They were creepy, and among lesser men who didn’t know how to properly handle themselves, the setting would’ve gone a long way to balancing young Jim’s deficiency.
Similar to Molo’s own youthful and average looks, which persisted despite himself being four years older than the young captain, Jim Hooch wasn’t born with the look of an intimidating man. Quite the opposite, actually, and this is where he differed from Molo: Jim Hooch was one of the most conventionally handsome pirates around. Fair featured and blessed with silky blonde hair, his soft cheeks paired with a relatively sturdy jaw to cut an appearance that was simultaneously all boyish charm and masculine vigor. Indeed, he looked like he could be one of those pretty navy captains that women always swooned over in their romance novels, and it wasn’t uncommon to see Jim in the company of two or three young ladies whenever he made port.
There were no ladies to be found here, though. Not even so much as a well ridden doxie. There were simply two captains, two first mates, four grogs, and business.
Jim smacked his lips after pulling a long swig from a sizeable mug of limey grog. “And why should I give a bilge rat’s soaked arse about yer problem, Mol?” he asked as he lounged back, elbows rested upon the windowsill behind him.
Molo was taking a drink of his own grog. Thin and watery, the tavern keep loaded it with limes to mask the fact the rum had developed an off flavor from the sea scum and fish smell that lingered everywhere. “We’re not senile, Jim. You remember Puerto Nuevo.”
“I remember you stuffing me into a barrel,” Jim sneered, trying his best to sound threatening, but Molo shrugged it off nonchalantly.
“You had a date with the headsman’s axe and they had dogs on your tail. If I hadn’t hid you and yours with the coffee and spices they’d have sniffed you out and we’d all have lost our heads.” With a circular spin of his hand, Molo motioned to all four men present, himself included.
“Fair enough,” Jim muttered into his mug. He continued after setting it back on the table with a sloshing thump. “But that was then, Mol. What’s in it for me now?”
Leaning an elbow against the table, Molo rested his chin on his palm and smirked beneath his bushy moustache. “You mean cleanness of conscience isn’t enough?” he quipped.
As expected, Jim laughed at that. “Not by a damn sight, Mol. I need incentive.”
When Molo next spoke, that sense of good natured humor had left his voice. He sat upright, met the blue-eyed gaze of his younger and more handsome counterpart with an iron firm look. “You owe me this, Jim,” he stated plain. “What those curs took puts my livelihood on the line, and my livelihood is my life. Help me get it back and debt for saving your backside would be squared.”
Jim glared from across the table. “That’s not incentive,” he hissed through grit teeth. Then he grinned, and his face carried a look that hinted at a fresh idea come to him. “Of course if yer situation’s dire as you say, I could always just take yer ship, leave you without. Wouldn’t be hard, neither, what with all those soft bellies you work with.”
His eyes fell on Wuthers with that comment. Molo started to reply, but his lanky partner was faster. With his arms crossed over his chest, the gaunt sailor looked Jim dead in the eyes.
“You could, but word would get out soon as you did and it’d move fast as lightning,” Wuthers said. “Everyone worth so much as a pinch of salt would know little Jim Jr. backstabbed a man in good standing with all them he’s done business with, illicit and legitimate. Now maybe you wouldn’t care, seeing as the latter’s been hunting after you already. But have you thought what’ll happen when word spreads? How do you think the blackguards and buccaneers in Dagger Bay will take the news when they hear you went and done in one of the most reliable traders they’ve ever known?”
Unable to resist a chuckle, Wuthers paused and shook his head. “I don’t know about you, lad, but I’d think twice before reaping that whirlwind.”
Jim looked outright furious at that, a sign of his youthful impetuousness. Bold brutality did more for his reputation than smarts did, but Molo had to credit the young bastard with one thing: he was at least smart enough to listen to his first mate. The Telari had leaned over, whispered something in Jim’s ear. At first, the young captain glared at him with almost as much disdain as he did Molo and Wuthers, but the Telari’s unflinching, stony mien pushed the brash young man to steady himself.
“So what in the Hells do you want from me, exactly?” Jim suddenly barked, his scowling visage fixated on the calmly smiling Molo.
“A few hardened hands to help us get back what’s ours, that’s all. You wouldn’t even need to get your own hands dirty,” Molo answered. “That being said, if you happen to know anyone who knows who those curs and where we’d probably find them, I wouldn’t look askance.”
On hearing the proposal, Jim slammed his hands on the table, nearly knocking over his grog as he leaned forward. “Oh, I know someone like that, alright,” he said. “He’s me. That whoreson what ambushed you earlier’s Elijah Lambert.”
Both Molo and Wuthers went wide-eyed. Elijah Lambert had become something of an overnight sensation on the Sea of Swords. Rumor had it he’d recently taken control of Boggart’s Bonepickers, a crew of picaroons who used to stalk the islands around the Pallas Archipelago in search of ships to ambush and hijack. In reality, Boggart’s crew had been wiped out by the Bertosian Navy some twenty years or so before Molo was even born, but that didn’t stop superstitious sailors from spinning tales about Elijah commanding a crew that, by all legitimate accounts, had long been killed.
“Aye, you heard me right,” Jim continued, smirking wide at Molo and Wuthers. “You two got yer arses beat by some of ol’ Boggart’s new crew.”
Wuthers leaned over and whispered into Molo’s ear. “Captain, if he’s right, then we’re bloody lucky to be alive!” he said.
Molo nodded in agreement. Elijah and the Bonepickers weren’t known for being merciful. Likely the only reason he hadn’t killed the both of them was because they were in Dagger Bay, and doing so in front of so many witnesses would’ve seen him hanged.
“I know what yer thinking,” Jim cut in. “How yer lucky to be living, and you’ll need more help than you thought. And yer right, you will.”
His smirk growing, Jim leaned back and once more rested his elbows on the windowsill behind him. “Yer also lucky that you came to me. I’ve got business of my own with Elijah and his boys, so regarding what you said earlier about me not getting me hands dirty? Bollocks to that. We’re finding that bastard, and when we do, I’m adding his notch to me belt, right here.”
Then he pressed a finger to the next empty spot on his bandolier.
The Lady Florenz cut a smooth path through choppy waters. The Pallas Archipelago, a scattershot chain of close packed islands that brushed right up to the southern cliffs of the Gold Coast, was well known for strong currents and rough seas. Only the expert and the daring - more often called the foolish - were willing to brave these waters, and even then very few would. This wasn’t just because of the risk posed by sharp rocks and hidden reefs, either. Equally risky was where it was located, because the Pallas Archipelago lay beside a section of the Gold Coast firmly the territory of Riverre, and as such was prone to random searches by her navy.
Captain Molo remained mindful of all of this as he stood at the helm. Carefully, he guided The Lady Florenz through the larger channels while his escorts, Jim Hooch’s paired sloops, explored the smaller waterways. Outside of confronting Elijah Lambert and the new Bonepickers crew, this was likely to be the riskiest part of their mission.
“Steady, Captain. Narrows ahead,” Wuthers said in a low tone.
Though a skilled helmsman in his own right, Molo’s shorter stature did slightly reduce his field of view. As such, he liked to keep Wuthers by his side when at the helm. Having that second pair of sharp eyes meant better chances at catching important details that might chance to slip by him, while having Wuthers call out what he noticed, even if it was obvious, helped Molo maintain his focus.
“I see it, Francis,” the stocky islander replied. A short ways ahead, two of the Pallas Islands brushed close. There was still space enough for The Lady Florenz to fit through, but they’d have to navigate carefully to avoid scraping against the rocks or worse, being thrown off by a strong enough current to crash.
Molo wasn’t worried, though. He and his men had all done this sort of thing before, and each of them manned their stations in near silence, waiting for his order. He gave it, and when they were close enough the crew fully unfurled the sails. This gave the brigantine enough speed to pass smoothly through the middle of that narrow stretch without moving so fast that the ship couldn’t be properly controlled. Through a wooshing salt spray, they emerged on the other side and met back up with Jim’s sloops in a wider opening between the islands.
“Any luck?” Jim Hooch called out from his ship on the right.
“None,” Molo replied.
They were looking for Elijah’s port. Rather, they were looking for old Boggart’s. The way Jim figured it, the fact Elijah went so far as to not only revive the Bonepickers’ name, but also resume activity in their original waters, the chances were good he’d holed up in the Boneyard as well. Problem was while most pirates and picaroons knew the Boneyard was somewhere in the Pallas Archipelago, none of them knew exactly where among the islands it was.
They’d been at the search for nearly a day. Including the time it took to travel from Dagger Bay to Pallas, they’d been at it for three. Jim had taken care of their supplies, though it wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. He expected to be repaid with interest for the gesture, which led Molo to an agreement which allowed Jim and his crew to claim the lion’s share of any plunder they might find. With the Bonepickers’ penchant for hijacking ships, it was likely they’d be able to claim some considerable booty. Assuming they could find their quarry at all, of course.
“We need to check the interior islands!” Molo called out.
“Had the same thought meself!” Jim hollered in reply. “We’ll head east then, toward the middle. You keep that brig of yers sticking to the wide lanes! Me boys and me’ll scour the narrows!”
“Aye! We’ll follow in after you!”
Molo was about to return to the helm when Jim called up to him one last time. “Oy, Mol! We’ll find them curs yet! I tell you now, we’ll have them skewered at the ends of our swords by sundown or my name’s not Jim Hooch!”
“Your name isn’t Jim Hooch! It’s Jim Hooch Junior!”
That was Wuthers, smiling all too proudly as he stood by the helm listening to the angry bleating of the young bastard captain.
Leaning against the helm as Jim’s sloops started banking eastward, Molo looked up at his First Mate and shook his head. “Why must you antagonize him like that?” he asked, but the only answer Wuthers gave was a widening of his grin.
The next couple hours involved The Lady Florenz picking her way through the wider channels of the archipelago’s interior. Not an easy prospect, considering how tightly packed in some of these islands were. In no less than three cases, Molo had to guide his ship around the perimeter of pairs or trios of smaller islands so tightly packed that there existed no space wide enough for his brigantine to fit between them. In no less than four, he had to squeeze through narrows that just barely allowed him through. In the third such channel, a jutting rock outcropping came so close it clipped the port side railing of the poop deck, pulling part of the rail completely off. One more fix to be added to the list.
Sundown came, and the evening turned to dusk. Soon it would be too dark to safely navigate the channels. Molo decided to move into a wider channel nearby and drop anchor for the night. Wuthers was quick to point out that the decision came with its own risks, not the least of which was the fact they’d make themselves an easy target for the Bonepickers if they decided to come by.
Molo already had the same thought, but he hadn’t yet decided on how to approach the problem. Best he could tell, he only had two reasonable choices. He and his crew could stay aboard the ship as normal, deal with the Bonepickers then and there if they showed up. Problem was they’d likely show in the dead of night. Even with watches set and Jim’s ships nearby, it would put Molo’s crew at the disadvantage since it would take time for Jim’s men to make it aboard themselves.
The other option was to disembark and make camp on the nearest island. That seemed a bit more reasonable. The one to their northwest had a sizable beach and they’d be able to camp far enough back that high tides shouldn’t be much of an issue. Of course, that also meant leaving The Lady Florenz uninhabited, which would make it an easier take if the thieves showed.
While weighing his options, Jim sailed up on his sloop. He called up for Molo, but was met with Wuthers. Almost immediately the two men started arguing again. For some reason, his first mate was insistent on getting under the skin of “little Jim Jr.” as he kept calling the younger man. The distracting noise was frustrating, but oddly enough, it ended up helping an idea spark in Molo’s mind. Pushing past Wuthers, he called down to Jim.
“How active are the Bonepickers in this area during the night?” Molo asked.
Jim shrugged. “Not a clue, but they’ve probably got a patrol or two at least,” he said.
“Do you know how close we are to the middle of the archipelago?”
Again, Jim shrugged. He had a guess, but that was all.
With so little to go on, formulating any kind of plan would be a gamble. Then again, this entire excursion had been a gamble. The bonds Elijah stole from him would’ve seen Molo and his crew set up with enough funds to operate for months. It was an already massive blow, and that had Molo debating with himself. Disembarking from The Lady Florenz would effectively leave her abandoned, and that would be a tempting target for the Bonepickers. Did he really want to risk losing his ship on top of everything else? He didn’t, but he also didn’t see a better option. Besides, there was no guarantee the thieves would even show up tonight.
“What’re you thinking, Mol?” Jim called out.
Right on time, too. Molo had just come to his decision. He told Jim to meet him and his crew on the beach so he could explain the plan to all of them at the same time. Jim agreed, and within a few minutes they were gathered just outside the island’s tree line.
Molo laid it all out clearly for them. They’d leave The Lady Florenz empty tonight and set up rotating watches to keep an eye out for any unusual activity. While they did that, Jim could set up his sloops in the narrow channels on either side of the island. With their shallow bottoms and good speed, they’d be able to move quickly to pursue The Lady Florenz should she end up captured. In that event, runners would break for each side of the island with a lantern to signal Jim’s ships to move, during which time Molo and his crew would ready their rowboats to meet with one of the two ships and board.
Jim gave a hearty laugh to the whole idea. “Yer a bolder man than I took you for, Mol!” he said, slapping the shorter captain on the shoulder. “Not a chance in all the Hells they’d pass an opportunity like that up, or my names not Jim Hooch!”
“It’s not,” Wuthers said. “It’s Jim Hooch Junior.”
Night fell soon after, and midnight seemed to come and go in a wink. One of his crew had woken him. Molo didn’t feel as if he’d slept the four hours he was told he had. After setting up their cots, he had the crew draw lots to assign their shifts for the watch, then offered to join the first watch himself. His first mate insisted against it. Since this was the Captain’s foolhardy plan, the Captain needed to rest to be ready should the Bonepickers show.
And show they did. Both he and Wuthers were roused by the crewmen on watch about thirty minutes past midnight, but only the presence of a bright gibbous moon in a dark night sky betrayed that he’d slept at all. Molo felt perfectly alert when he was awoken, as if he’d only shut his eyes for a minute or two. It was a strange, disorienting sensation, but he shoved it aside and quickly took command of the situation.
“Get my spyglass,” he said to the young, swarthy skinned Bertosian who roused him. It was Caius Abate, Marco’s younger brother, and he retrieved the tool quickly. Once in hand, Molo extended the tri-sectioned brass telescope and trained it on his ship.
“They’re on deck all right,” he said, and when he lowered the spyglass he could see the silhouette of The Lady Florenz’s sails unfurling.
The rest of the crew gathered around their Captain as he joined Wuthers on the beach. However, a rapid headcount told him two were missing. “Willems and Lark?” he asked.
“Off to signal little Jim,” Wuthers said. “Our boys sent them off before they woke us.”
Molo grinned. “Good men, I could ask for no better. Now let’s get a move on. We need to get these rowers in the water fast as we can to make pursuit. Captain Hooch’s sloops will be by any moment.”
Molo’s was a small crew, particularly for the size of ship they commanded. With only sixteen of them in total, it was a miracle they ran the ship as well as they had up until then. It was a testament to the hard and, more importantly, efficient work his crew put in. At their best they had the gumption to put in the work of twice as many men, and his crew always strove for their best. In and of itself, that spoke to the good treatment and strong leadership qualities of their Captain, though Molo was far too humble to ever admit that aloud. Hells, he hardly admitted it to himself.
The crewmen showed that gumption again here. Two minutes, then the rowboats were in the water. Another four and Jim Hooch’s twin sloops were rounding either side of the island, each boarding half of Molo’s crew. Wuthers went on the second ship, all the better to keep he and Jim separated. Molo didn’t expect his first mate would cause trouble in this situation, but Jim was another matter entirely.
Jim reached down and grabbed Molo’s hand as he was ascending the rope ladder. With a hard pull, he helped his slightly portly fellow captain aboard.
“Look at that, Mol!” he cried out. “Too tempting a prize for them to pass up, just like I said it were!”
He was pointing to The Lady Florenz, which wound its way through narrow channels that Molo wouldn’t have dared even during the day. “Remind me to pay you duly when this is over, Jim,” he said, unable to tear his eyes from the silhouette of his brigantine.
“Don’t you worry there, Mol. We’ll get good and squared before this is done, believe that.”
“Good to know,” Molo huffed, “because if I don’t see my ship again come the end of this, I’m going to throttle you.”
Jim laughed heartily, then rushed to the starboard rail and whistled loud to his second ship. “Pace and pursue, Mister Carr! Don’t let The Lady Florenz out of yer sight!”
“Aye, Captain!” came the call from the second ship as Jim took his place behind the helm.
For thirty minutes they followed on the trail of The Lady Florenz. For as smooth as his own ship sailed, Molo had to admit he was impressed at just how cleanly Jim Hooch’s twin sloops cut through the archipelago’s waters. The smaller vessels were more maneuverable than his brigantine, but seldom had he seen them handled with such deftness and precision. Jim was decisive in his orders, too, calling commands to his crew even as he manned the helm. His ability to multitask was impressive, and as he watched the younger man work, Molo began to understand just why Jim Hooch Junior managed to so thoroughly surpass his drunken lout of a father.
“She’s banking left, Jim,” Molo said as The Lady Florenz began to lean toward its port side. “Looks like they’re taking her into that cove yonder.”
“Boggart’s Boneyard,” Jim said, his lips split into a wicked grin.
Seeing it at last, the name finally made sense. The hollowed and broken hulls of derelict ships and half-sunken hulks littered the edges of the cove. Cast in the pale moonlight as they were, they looked eerily similar to bones, as if the ruined vessels were actually the corpses of long dead giants. The Lady Florenz sailed right past these skeletal frames, finally slowing as it crept its way into the shallows.
Jim ordered his men to slow ahead, then had the second sloop move in front of his as he dropped anchor. The second followed suit, which left both ships blocking the debris littered entrance into the cove. Then he and his men started lowering their rowers into the water. About half the crew from each ship, as well as Molo’s own men, loaded up into six boats. The rest were to remain aboard the sloops and prepare to fend off any boarding attempts.
“What’s our plan, Jim?” Molo asked as the six rowers gathered together.
“It’s yer endeavor, you tell us.”
Molo thought about it for a moment. Drawing his spyglass, he scanned and searched as much of the area as he could. Bright as the moon was, night searching wasn’t exactly ideal. There was a lot he couldn’t see, especially on the island itself. He was able to make out at least part of the boarding party disembarking from his ship, but it was a good bet they hadn’t abandoned it entirely. They picked their way slowly through the coves waters, led by lanterns held close to the water.
“There’s hidden debris underwater,” Molo said.
“How can you tell, Captain?” Wuthers asked.
It was Jim who answered, though. “Their lanterns. They’re keeping them close to the water so they can see beneath it.”
Suddenly, Molo let out a loud huff. “I don’t see any lights on the island,” he said. “I figured there’d be a couple lanterns or a bonfire at least, but it almost looks like they don’t even have a settlement.”
“They’ve got to have something,” Wuthers said. “They wouldn’t be able to carry out an operation like this if they didn’t have someplace to settle in.”
“Could be the Boneyard’s just where they leave the ships and the settlement’s elsewhere,” Molo mused.
“Well that’s all good and dandy, but we’re not going to find out by flapping our gums out here, are we?” Jim cut in. Then, with a wave of his hand and an order to shove off, the oarsmen began their work. Soon, they approached the dark shore.
The Boneyard was quieter than expected. Much to Molo’s surprise, all six rowboats made it to shore without any trouble at all.
“I don’t like this. It’s too still, too quiet,” Jim grumbled. He was already gripping his cutlass tight in his right hand.
Molo was inclined to agree with him. There was an eerie stillness about the place, and now that they’d come ashore he noticed the Boneyard might’ve had another reason for its name. Skeletons, actual skeletons, littered the beach in varying sizes. Some were roughly man sized, while others were the size of ships. Almost none of them were human, but a handful were.
“What do you think they are, Captain?” Wuthers asked.
“Whales and dolphins, I’d bet,” Molo said. “They’re old, though, stripped completely bare. Boggart was said to have a massive crew when he was alive. Could be he turned to whaling to keep them fed and supplied with oil in leaner times.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him from the stories I’ve heard,” Jim said as they picked their way through the field of carcasses.
The further up the beach they went, the more the bones changed. Skeletons still jutted out of the sands within a couple steps of any one of the few dozen men present, but fewer and fewer were of the cetacean variety. By the time they were halfway up the beach, every skeleton they saw was that of a man.
“Like a bloody charnel house,” Jim murmured, and Molo was inclined to agree. Were these the corpses of Boggart’s crew and the navy men who’d pursued them, or were they simply the unfortunate victims of his raids?
A sharp snap came from the trees, followed immediately by a rustle. The men stiffened. Those who hadn’t drawn their weapons yet did, while those who had brandished them in readiness for a fight. Suddenly the rough barked trees and scrub before them were alive with rustling, but for a moment they saw no other movement. Then, seconds before it landed, Molo spotted the cherry red sparks of a lit grenado arcing through the air at him.
“Scatter!” he yelled, and the men looked about in a moment of confusion just brief enough to ensure some of their deaths.
The spherical explosives either hit the sand with dull thumps or struck jutting bones with noisome clacks. Either way, the result was the same once the first one went off. Molo wasn’t sure who was taken. He thought it was one of Jim’s boys, but he couldn’t be sure. In either case, the explosion left him without his legs and ripped up the lower half of his torso. He was dead before his body fell, but the screams of others caught in the blast told far less fortunate tales.
“Bleeding scum suckers!” Jim spat, pulling himself up to his feet. “Grenados! Them’s grenados you daft bastards! Scatter and close in so they can’t keep using the damned things!”
Jim was already running for the tree line as he gave his order, and it didn’t take long for his men to follow. Molo’s men weren’t cut from the same cloth as Jim Hooch and his pirates, though. Looking to each other and their captain with fear in their eyes, they hesitated, and Caius very nearly paid the price for it. A grenado had landed beside him. In his panic to scramble away, he’d tripped over one of the skeletons. Fortunately his brother Marco was nearby, and had the good sense to kick the explosive away. He wasn’t quite fast enough, though, and while the blast didn’t kill him, his right arm and flank were both hit.
Caius started to panic as he watched his brother writhe and bleed on the ground, and his panic started spreading to the rest of the men. Molo needed to act, and it needed to be now. Drawing his flintlock alongside his saber, he turned to his men.
“You all heard Jim! We need to close on the enemy!” Molo barked. “Caius, you stay here and tend to your brother’s wounds. Lark, you help him! The rest of you, with me! We’re taking back what’s ours!”
Save Marco and Caius, all of Molo’s men answered with a riotous shout! Molo Pearldiver wasn’t the most handsome or physically imposing man. He was stout, a bit on the short and round side, and his bushy mustache and goatee made him look a bit like an otter. Even so there was no doubting that his role as the Captain of this crew was well earned, because even if it meant following him into battle, his men were willing to do so. And they were willing because Molo was willing to lead.
The fighting had already climbed to a fever pitch when Molo and his remaining twelve men, including Wuthers, reached the action. Though they were outnumbered roughly two to one, Captain Jim Hooch fought with such barbaric ferocity that his men were inspired to push every bit as hard as he did. Left and right he cut men down, keeping audible count as he did so - “Twenny six! Twenny seven! Come on, you rotten bastards. Help me make that whoreson boss of yers a nice, even thirty!”
By contrast, Molo approached the battle with a dexterous precision oft unexpected of men with his physique. A cluster of Bonepickers rushed at him and his crew, but instead of stopping to hold ground he pressed forward and lunged into them with deadly swiftness. He’d already killed two of the thieving sea wolves when both groups fully clashed a couple seconds later, piercing one’s heart with an upward stab beneath his ribs, and slashing the throat of the other.
While not fighting men by trade, the crew of The Lady Florenz proved capable once their fear was overcome by survivor’s instinct. In a situation like this, with flight no longer on the table, fight became the only option. That’s the point at which drills and training would take over. In this moment, Molo was very glad for his insistence that all his men maintain competency with their swords. After all, one never truly knew when he’d need to use that sword arm to fend for his life.
Molo wasn’t sure how long the fighting carried on for. Seconds. Minutes. Tens of minutes. All he really did know was the end result of his skirmish. By the time his fight with that band of Bonepickers ended, he was down four good men; Willems, Harper, Madrigal, and Deneuve. When all was said and done, he’d grieve for those men, as would the rest of them. His enemy’s losses were far greater, though, a testament to the spirited vigor with which he and his crew fought. Twenty men had fallen upon them on that bone strewn beach, and those twenty men were dead.
Further up the way, Jim rallied his men to push onward, following the Bonepickers into the scrub. Molo stayed behind, had his men gather up the dead, and returned to where Lark, Caius, and Marco lay. Marco was unconscious, but breathing. His wounds were bandaged, and with any luck he’d last long enough for them to get back to port and see him properly treated. In the meantime, every still living man except Caius loaded onto one of the rowers and prepared to take back The Lady Florenz. What they’d failed to notice in all the commotion were the reinforcements that came from the beach to support the rest of the Bonepickers. It was only once they boarded to find their ship as empty as they’d left it that they realized what must have happened.
“Light up the lanterns men. Let Hooch’s sloops know we’ve retaken the ship,” Molo said.
The men did so, and once they were finished he took four back to shore to pick up Caius, Marco, and their dead. All told, it took them about ten minutes to secure Marco and load the bodies. The sounds of fighting in the jungle didn’t stop during that entire time, and they continued for another twenty minutes after that. Molo knew because he sent his men back alone. He wanted to stay behind, just to make sure he got back what was his. He was the one who’d lost those bonds, after all, so it was only right that he ensured they were brought back.
Picking his way back up that long stretch of bone strewn beach, the din of battle finally faded by the time he picked his way through the path Jim’s men had violently hacked through the island’s vegetation. He barely made it thirty paces before Jim himself emerged from behind a nearby tree with a leather satchel in hand, blood soaked and grinning proudly.
“Well, well, Mol!” he huffed. Until he spoke, Molo wasn’t able to tell how out of breath he was behind that smile. “Looks like I can’t say me notches match me age anymore! I blame you for that.”
“How is that my fault? I just wanted some extra hands, you didn’t have to come,” Molo chuckled.
“We both know that’s a load of bollocks,” Jim said. “Between my debt for Puerto Nuevo and the score I had to settle with that whoreson, there’s nowhere else I could be right now. Oh, and speaking of that, pretty sure these are yers.”
Jim slid the satchel off his shoulder and tossed it to Molo. Opening it, he found that it was stuffed with his stolen bonds. And not just his bonds, either. It seemed Elijah had swiped about three times as many from other victims, some Riverran, some Bertosian. He let out a sigh of relief and slung the pack over his shoulder.
“I take it the extras are my cut?” Molo asked.
Jim nodded. “Not as if I can use them, being wanted by both nations and all.”
“Thank you, Jim,” Molo said.
“Don’t mention it,” Jim replied with a smirk. “Besides, we made off with quite the haul ourselves!”
His men emerged from the jungle shortly after. Whooping and hollering, they carried all sorts of plunder back to their boats. Sacks of coin. Chests full of jewelry. Barrels and crates loaded with spices and foodstuffs. Clothes of fine silks and satins for men and women both. Paintings and portraits, new weapons, and much more. A veritable trove. Molo wondered how he was going to carry it all on those sloops of his.
“What did I tell you, Mol?” Jim said as they started heading to the shore. “I said we’d find that bastard, and I’d add his notch to me belt right here, or my name’s not Jim Hooch!”
Molo ignored the fact that he was pointing a full seven notches lower than he said he would. What he didn’t ignore was Jim’s favorite phrase. Shaking his head, he said, “No, you’re not Jim Hooch. You’re Captain James Hooch, Junior.”
To that, Jim’s smile widened. “You bet the Highfather’s wrinkly old arse I am!”
My first novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! Lured to the sleepy farming community of Jötungatt by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares.
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Excellent work, as always.
Where did you get your dividers? Those are neat and very specific to your theme.