Art:AADM/Second round/The Greatest Treasure

The Short
= The Entry = The lights of Tortuga shone down upon one of the most dazzling, deadly pirates to curse the Spanish Main, Marie LaSalle; daughter of a French Baron and siren of Port Royal, the russet-haired scourge who roamed the high seas seducing privateers, sinking galleons, slaughtering many a seaman, now hanging limp and lifeless from the weathered wooden gibbet.

Small boats of all kinds were gathered around the end of the dock that held the gibbet. Many faces gazed at the sad scene on the dock, that lovely, lifeless body swaying in the sea breeze that lapped around the craft and the pilings. Waves brushed their soft whisper against every hull, crying a silent lament for Marie LaSalle.

Amid the crowd of gawkers, Jonathan Doyle's heart cried its own lament. A pirate sheds no tears in public, and Doyle, sitting in the prow of a dory, refused to break that rule even as the almost festive gathering began to break up. Instead, he sat silently, fixing the scene in his mind, holding a silver locket in one hand as he bade farewell to his first captain, his friend - and, many years past, his lover.

"Th'crowd's startin' to thin out, Cap'n," Bosun Collins murmured to his captain, his hesitance to disturb the scene evident in his voice. "We should p'raps head back?"

Doyle sighed quietly and popped the locket open, looking for a moment at the lock of russet hair held within, then closed it and tucked it back within his shirt. "Aye, we should."

"She had a good run, Cap'n." Collins' gnarled hand thumped Doyle's shoulder reassuringly. "The crew'll be waitin' fer us at the Tankard. We'll 'ave us a toast to Cap'n LaSalle an' ask her t' send our regards to the Devil."

As the sun set in a fiery red salute to the lost, they fell in with a fleet of boats that flowed back to shore like foam on the rising tide, while behind them the gibbet creaked its sad song into the night.

Raucous singing echoed along the narrow alleys of Tortuga's waterfront from the broken front window of the Dented Tankard. Dodging a sudden flurry of fisticuffs between several gentlemen far in their cups and a lady of questionable honour who easily had the upper hand in the discussion, he made his way to the table where most of his officers sat. The revelry around him seemed almost disrespectful on this night, even among his crew, and after half-heartedly joining in the toast to Marie LaSalle, Doyle sank quietly into his seat, nursing the poor excuse for ale, and remembered the last time he had seen Marie LaSalle, some nine years gone...

"It is time, Jonathan - time for you to earn your own way on the seas," her lightly accented voice called, drifting on the wind, her russet hair blowing in the breeze as the Blue Diamond cut neatly through a gale. "You have been an exemplary first mate, but all pirates need to make their own way in life!"

Blinking away the sea spray and rain from my eyes, Doyle had bleared at the slim form through the haze. "But Marie - what about us? What about..."

He was cut off with a whistle of the slim saber that had dispatched so many foes through the years. "Find your own way, Jonathan, and perhaps we will meet again!" The blade whistled, the sound cut off with a sudden thunk and a twang as Marie's keen blade slashed through a taut cable slung over the railing. The Diamond had pulled away from the leaky dory into which he had been unceremoniously dumped. Bobbing among the waves with nothing but his clothes, a small supply of food, a battered sextant and a rough map, he had watched the ship disappear into the gale, sighed and huddled down to wait for the stars to show themselves.

A furtive tap on his shoulder cut through the personal reverie, and Doyle swam back out of the long-held memory to find a grizzled and none too clean face before his. Reflexively gripping his cutlass, the captain glared at the interloper. "Well? What is it?"

"Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n Doyle, but I bring yez a message." The grizzled creature - was this a man or trained monkey, Doyle wondered; it certainly smelled more the latter than the former - brandished a tattered envelope in one grubby fist. "I'd be well pleased if'n ye could spare an ol' salt a penny or two fer a cup o'grog..." he hinted hopefully.

"I'll consider it if ye tell me who the message is from, and not before," Doyle growled angrily, and he cringed back.

"No need t'get angry, sor... 'tis from..." He looked around furtively. "...a former friend o'yours who I wuz in th'brig with until the ceremonies earlier t'day."

Marie! Doyle's mind roared as the realization sank in, and he quickly reached out for the envelope, which was snatched quickly out of reach. "A penny, Cap'n?"

Fishing in his purse, Jonathan pulled out a silver coin and held it up; the old fellow's eyes widened, and he quickly handed over the envelope. "Why, praise yer generosity!" he exclaimed, the glint of the coin in his eyes as he scuttled off into the crowd.

The rough envelope tore easily, and the flimsy paper within crinkled as it slipped free. It had obviously been filched from someone, folded and creased under the ink in which Doyle's name was spelled out... but was that ink? No, he realized, it was scrawled in... blood. What message could be so important to use one's own blood? he thought, unfolding the paper to read the messy scrawl inside:

"Jonathan: I write this note as the guards gloat and prepare for my hanging. You, I am sure, will be in Tortuga upon hearing of this, and I wish to pass along one final message to you, my finest first mate and, indeed, my love:

"It has taken many years for the British to bring me to their form of justice, and through it all, I have wished many times for you at my side once again. As I go to my final judgment, I wish to leave you with something to remember me by. The below sketch will lead one such as you, a pirate of the finest quality, to the greatest treasure of my career upon the seas, a treasure that I share with you. Please take this treasure as my final mark of respect for you - respect and love.

"The hangman will arrive soon. I must end this note quickly. Jonathan, my friend and love, I wish you a longer life than mine. Ever yours, Marie."

And below: a rough map. Islands, currents, landmarks: everything required to find... what? Gems? Gold? Precious metals?

Tucking the letter in his shirt close to his breast, the captain stood and thumped his ale pot on the table. "Come, mates - back to the Marlin! We've got business to attend to!"

The pirates of the Marlin roared a cheer and flooded out into the streets of Tortuga, headed for the docks. Behind them, looks were speculatively exchanged among the patrons of the Tankard, and soon a number of others filtered rather more quietly down to the wharves.

Ropes snapped in the freshening breeze that swirled across the harbour mouth, and the sails of the Marlin billowed, pushing the thirty-gun small frigate neatly away from the rocks and towards the open ocean.

"We're well underway, Johnny, and the stores are stowed firm." Edward Robins, Doyle's long-time first mate, joined him at the wheel, the older man brushing dust from the neat sea-coat that his captain required the officers to wear. Pirates they may be, he felt, but there was no reason to look the barbarians that so many people saw them to be... besides, he had joked once, that way their opponents didn't see the cutlass until it was too late.

"Good work, Edward," Jonathan replied, handing the wheel over to his steersman and walking to the rail. "I suppose ye're wondering what we're up to."

Robins grinned tightly as he joined the young captain at the rail. "In all the years we've been sailin' together, Johnny, I've never second-guessed ye on one of these blind runs. But if ye have the urge to explain yerself, I'll not complain..."

The battered envelope crackled as Doyle handed it to his friend, who lifted an eyebrow at the red-stained writing, then laboriously read the message. "By the devil!" the mate exclaimed, his eyes wide. "Marie LaSalle's treasure... But I thought the law claimed all o'her plunder when she was captured!"

"You knew Marie, Edward. Do ye think she'd keep all of her goods in one place? No, my friend, there's caches of her goods all over the Caribbean. This, though... her greatest treasure..." Jonathan's voice trailed off as he looked forward.

Robins clapped a big hand on his captain's shoulder. "We'll put all sail up, Cap'n. I just hope whoever got ye that message didn't share it around too much before it got to ye."

Unfolding the letter, Doyle looked it over. "I swear to ye, Ed, if anyone challenges me for this, they'll regret it. Now let's get this tub pointed in the right direction, eh? If I read this correct, we've got a week's sail or more ahead of us."

The Marlin made way smoothly, running north with a good breeze that, a few days from port, matured into a heavy storm. With no good port nearby, Doyle watched the clouds creep closer, chasing the ship's wake, and ordered the lashing down of anything that might bounce around. Late that night when the sails snapped amid a sudden howl of wind, the crew grimly tied themselves to the masts, railings, and anything else solid in preparation for the coming weather.

"Are ye sure we shouldn't make westward to the islands, Johnny?" Robins shouted across the suddenly angry gale as the crew shortened sail quickly. "This is lookin' rough!"

Doyle shook his head. "Far too late for turning now, Ed. If we turn now, we'll just get pushed north and the rollers will do us in."

Frowning, the first mate shook his head. "I hope the old girl holds together for us, Cap'n. She's been showin' her age lately..."

"Nonsense! The Marlin's still as solid as the day the Spanish built her. Remember the day we took her?" Jonathan grinned tightly as spatters of rain began to fall onto the deck. "We bounced so many shots off her I was startin' to think she was a ghost ship right until that ball knocked her mast over."

"Aye, lad. But that was us, and this is Mother Nature we're dealin' with. She's not nearly as kind-hearted as ye."

Doyle grunted as the wheel he gripped suddenly gave a hard buck, a wild gust of wind pushing the Marlin sideways as the waves around them began to build and the rain intensified. "If she shows up on my deck, I'll make her walk the plank."

Howling winds surrounded the Marlin as the dim light of day faded, the ship rolling with the waves that pushed from behind, her sails driving her before the gale. Doyle held the wheel hard, rain dripping from his wide-brimmed hat.

"Cap'n! A light!"

The shout from an aft lookout caused the captain's head to whirl around. "What? Ed! See what he's yammering about!"

Robins struggled his way to the aft rail and peered out into the teeth of the gale through a spyglass. A momentary easing of the rain gave him a clear view of the light. "Hell's teeth!" he swore angrily.

"Problem, Ed?"

"Small one, Cap'n. It's the Red Dagger. She's got her battle flag up."

"That is, indeed, a problem."

Doyle shook his head as he looked backwards to the flickering light in the distance. The Red Dagger, helmed by Captain Ricardo Alvarez, one of the more brutal buccaneers in the Caribbean, was a forty-gun frigate captured from the British Navy one dark night off Barbados. Stories were told - in hushed voices - of the bloodshed that had followed upon Alvarez's crew slipping aboard the ship in the night. He was vicious and deadly, and he had hated Doyle since the day he had been driven from a merchantman caught in open waters by the Marlin and her crew.

"She's faster than us in this gale, ye know, Johnny," Robins said, holding tight to the rail next to the helm. "They'll be on us by morning."

"Then I've got plenty of time to come up with an idea, don't I?" Adjusting his hat, Doyle gripped the wheel hard, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a plan that would not end with he and his crew ending their voyage at Davy Jones' table.

By the time the gloom of night had become the slightly brighter gloom of day, the Red Dagger was easily visible behind the Marlin. Turning to regard the ship catching up to him, the captain scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully, then nodded to himself. "I've got it, Ed."

"Surrender an' hope for our lives?"

"Defeatist thinking is not for the officers, Ed. Hold the wheel, and I'll explain."

Robins' eyes went wide as his captain outlined the plan. "But that's like to tear us apart!" he objected.

Shaking his head, Doyle smiled. "She's strong enough to take it, Ed. Besides," he added wryly, "surrendering and hoping for our lives was the only other option I could come up with. Get the guns loaded. Double loads, please."

The Red Dagger was nearly close enough for Doyle to see figures at her bow when Robins reported back that all was ready. Watching the waves warily, Doyle flinched at the thud of a poorly aimed cannon from behind them. "Let's see your oversized tub do this, Alvarez." His voice raised as the wind shifted to come in from her starboard side. "All hands ready yourselves ... NOW!"

As a wave rolled from the stern of the Marlin, Doyle slammed the tiller hard to port, even as the crew let out all sail and hauled the rigging around to catch the swirling gale. The main mast creaked ominously as the craft heeled hard to surf on the top of the roller, listing heavily to starboard as it presented her port side to the oncoming Red Dagger.

"FIRE!" Robins shouted as the ship rolled back upright. A roar erupted from the port battery, and the larger ship was far too close to avoid the sudden, unexpected onslaught. Figures scattered as the deck was raked by the attack, but the greater effect came when a hard gust of wind caught her main rigging. Weakened by a number of cannonballs to its base, the mainmast shuddered, then twisted and toppled onto the deck.

With a sigh of relief, Doyle shouted "Reset and shorten sails!" forward even as he turned the wheel to return to the northern course; the Marlin shuddered as the strain on the mainmast was reduced, and the Dagger slipped into the mist behind her.

The storm blew itself out not long after the clash, leaving nothing but a stiff breeze and grey skies as the dark clouds outran the ship to the north. Robins made his way to the helm, wiping rain and sweat from his brow. "Any sign of'em, Johnny?"

"Not a one, old friend. We slowed them down well enough. Everything squared away below?"

Edward's face was somber. "One of the guns exploded from the extra load. We lost four men, and three others are hurt bad."

"Damn!" Jonathan shook his head. "I was worried of that, but we needed the extra iron..." He sighed. "Damage?"

"Not much, sir. There was a bit o'a fire, but we put it out quick." Robins cracked a smile. "Ye know that if Alvarez survived that, he'll be wantin' your blood even more now."

"Let him come," Doyle said, the excitement that always followed an engagement roaring in his ears... but no, he realized as Robins' smile faltered, that was from elsewhere.

The deck erupted beneath the two men with a howl that might have emerged from the gates of Hell itself as a flicker of flame missed by the crew crept through a crack in the decking and caught in the well-stocked powder magazine. With a deafening blast, the Marlin exploded, scattering men, equipment and planking over a vast area of ocean. Doyle found himself flying through the air, the grey sky and green sea swirling as he tumbled. Then he struck something head-first, and his consciousness fled in a bright burst of sparks.

Sunlight stabbed into Doyle's eyes, and he winced, curling up against the ache that started in the centre of his head and spread throughout his body. Slowly, he managed to raise his head and peer around himself blearily. The sea was glassy and smooth and the sky clear - and there was nothing to see except ocean around the dory that he had somehow landed in after the Marlin's sudden demise.

Shocked by the amazing luck that had left him alive and relatively safe, the captain quickly evaluated his situation. A splitting headache aside, he was bruised and battered but remarkably whole. His eyes flew open and he dug into his somewhat tattered shirt - and there was Marie's letter, safe. In the pocket of his sea-coat was his old sextant, and inside his broad belt he felt the handful of coins that he always kept stashed on his person for emergencies.

His ship was gone, and likely most of the crew with it. Doyle had a moment's pain over that, especially the loss of his old friend Robins, but they were quickly put aside. Ships were easy enough to come by to a man who could play cards or fight well, and besides, he had riches cached all over - all he needed to do was find a way to get there.

But for now, Jonathan thought, he had a treasure to claim - if he survived that long. The sun's movement gave him an indication on which way was north, and he peered painfully in that direction, searching, searching... and finding a smudge of darkness just on the horizon. The pirate looked around the empty little boat, kicked the rough board seat out of place, and, using the plank as a makeshift paddle, headed towards that distant smudge.

The sun had risen again by the time an exhausted and aching Doyle splashed out of the waves on a black-sand beach that seemed to stretch forever surrounding the small island's jungle-covered slopes. A small stream had cut a rivulet through the sand, and he staggered his way to its banks, sucking palmsful of the cool water, ignoring the rasp of sand caught up with it.

A good two hours' hike along the edge of the jungle towards a lazy curl of smoke led to a clearing and a ramshackle set of docks, all empty as he came around a point and looked around. A few buildings were set at the head of the wharf, and others were built back to the edge of the jungle surrounding the church that often served as the centrepoint of fruit and gem hunting camps. In the distance, a series of jagged peaks rose to the sky - peaks that caught Doyle's attention and stirred a sudden, surprised memory.

He withdrew the precious letter from Marie from his coat and unfolded it, unable to accept his luck - but there it was. The sketch showing the outline of the island - matching what he had walked; the line of broken peaks and their silhouette against the sky...

It was there. Marie's treasure... he had, by sheer force of luck and the whims of the sea, found it.

Excitedly, Jonathan scrambled along the beach to the mouth of another small stream, then followed the directions towards the buildings at the edge of the jungle, marking his distance with even paces... that brought him not into the trees, but to the front of a two-story building with a faded sign bearing a bunch of grapes dangling above the door. He looked back at the map, but even in its ragged design, this was the spot.

With his heart sinking, Doyle realized what had happened. Some enterprising gem miner had found this island and its protected bay, and built this town right on top of Marie LaSalle's treasure.

He groaned, tucking the map back in his shirt, and dejectedly walked into the tavern. Perhaps he was overlooking something from lack of food; a meal would provide him the strength to reconsider the situation.

The taproom was empty save for the proprietor, a vast woman in a spotted apron who stood in his way until Doyle proved he had money to spend. He demolished a plate of bread and cheese and, over a tankard of ale, decided to see if he could confirm his fears.

"If I may ask, madam, how long has this village been here?"

The woman stopped sweeping the floor and regarded her guest. "Almost ten years now," she replied in a voice tinged with a Dutch accent. "It was a religious colony when it started, but religion left when the miners moved in."

Doyle frowned and stared into his mug. "And this building? How long has it been here?"

"It was one of the first buildings here. The missionaries made it as an orphanage, but few children were born or brought here." She lifted an eyebrow at his queries, but he ignored that, thinking hard. Had Marie made a mistake in the map? Had she forgotten her own treasure's location? Was this some terrible prank from beyond the grave?

Brooding, Jonathan nearly didn't notice when his empty plate was lifted from the table. He looked up into the face of a young boy in a ragged shirt whose roughly cut russet hair hung nearly into his eyes - eyes that made Doyle think for a moment that he was looking into a mirror.

The young fellow carried off the plate as Jonathan's eyes widened in shock. He turned to the barmaid again. "You said this was an orphanage?"

"It was. That fellow was the last of the children left here... the church was to care for him, but mostly this has meant I have cared for him the past eight years. Perhaps one day someone will give him a life better than this one, but for now..." She frowned as the child reappeared from the kitchen, looking curiously at their customer.

"Eight years." Doyle beckoned to the child, who approached warily. "So you are eight years old, then, lad?"

"I am almost nine!" he proclaimed.

"Eight years and one month, to be exact," the barmaid snorted to the young fellow's dismay.

Doyle ignored the youth's strident argument with his guardian and calculated quickly, thinking back nearly nine years, his calculations coming to what was becoming a very obvious conclusion. "Tell me, young man, what is your name?"

"Georges, sir."

Marie's father had been named Georges.

Both the boy and the barmaid were surprised by the sudden grin that spread across Jonathan's face as he realized that he had, in fact, found the spot marked on the map. For here before him was Marie LaSalle's greatest treasure - a treasure that she shared with him, her final gift to him, and a gift that he would treasure to the end of his days.

"Tell me, Georges." Doyle leaned close to the youngster. "Have you ever wanted to be a pirate?"

The boy's answering smile was as bright as any treasure on the ocean.