Dead Men Tell No Tales (2 page)

More, they carried the Plague.

It had all started ten years before, in now fallen England. Survivors said the Plague was brought into Southampton by the Sea Venture, a Navy frigate captained by Robert H. Hackett. Nobody knew where the crew had caught that unholy disease, besides none cared; they were too busy evacuating the Old World when had realized it was not possible to contain it. At first, the Risen crew had shambled out the docked vessel, causing horror among the inhabitants. They were dealt with by the city militia, at least it seemed so. The fiend bodies had been piled and set to flame, cremating their cursed flesh to cinders. Soon, the dead from cemeteries, and lonely graves began to rise, and people showed symptoms of the Plague. By Christmastime it had reached London. Not even the Great Fire had stopped it. In less than five months the Plague had spread to mainland Europe, killing off thousand of people and reanimating as much to this evil mockery of life. Some said it was not a disease, but God’s wrath, unleashed on mankind for his sins. Christians had flocked to churches, locking inside, endlessly praying the Lord to save their souls in upcoming Apocalypse. Others blamed the foreign, or the women, or cats, or rats, or whatever came to their blurred minds.

And everything Drake knew was lost.

Somehow, the Plague had fall not on the New World, nobody knew why, still they didn’t care. The exodus from the Old world had been a messy affair, in which anarchy had reigned more than civil manners. Bribes and weapons had insured survival to a higher degree than royalty and clerical influence. The New Word had become a place for the merchant, not for the noble.

Six months ago the first Risen vessel had been spotted near Hispaniola. There had been questionable attacks on small settlements and tiny colonies previously, yet the League had blamed rogues and royalists. However, these bloodthirsty attacks had left no survivors, and had carried away none of the booty from their nightly raids.

Except people.

Raided villages appeared desolate and silent to those unfortunate who had berthed their ship in these dead places.

And the smell of decay had settled in, forever lingering as an evil taint.

Now, the Risen were approaching quickly, driven by unnatural winds. God only knew how it was possible for that wreck to float, let alone to veer and sail. Yet, it changed tack with swiftness, as a monstrous shark giving chase to tasty morsel.

“
Leave ship now!” Mac outcried, desperately trying to have his mates abandon the boarded freighter. Drake was already at the tiller, frantically shouting orders to the crew, his gaze frozen on the incoming monstrosity.

“
In the name of God, do not leave us here!” exclaimed Captain Salazar running to the planks and grabbing Luther’s arm. The hulking German didn’t flinch; he got loose of the hold and punched the Spaniard so hard he fell overboard. At that sight, chaos ensued and more than ninety men hurried toward the smaller brig, recklessly pushing everyone on their path, fighting to reach the intact vessel’s safety.

“
Come off it,” Drake ordered, eyeing the tattered sails, “Make speed. Bring her about!”

The Banshee’s Cry maneuvered away from the Santa Esmeralda, causing most of the boarding mariners to plunge down in the frothing waters, while others clung to the keel, yet were easily dealt with by the privateers.

“
God forgive us,” muttered Mac, taking hold of the helm. Drake nodded, but he knew there was no other choice. The brig had place for seventy men and twenty passengers, there was no space for all that people. He allowed himself a last view of the doomed freighter, before taking his decision.

“
Make for the Caicos.”

Mac nodded and shouted, “Ready about!” and all the hands hurried to their duties.

****

Later, they were taking advantage of strong wind to gain distance from the ship of the dead.

Geist was scanning stern-side, figuring to spot the tattered canvases at any moment. But the dead were not giving chase, and he knew why; they were busy capturing the stranded Spaniard crew. Tall tales said the Risen ate the living.

He knew better.

The fiends had no need for eating or drinking. Nope. They liked their victims alive; to abuse and torture ‘em for days, feeding from pain. They only wished for spreading the Plague, until only Death would reign.

In the morning they tacked southward, entering the Windward Passage, between Cuba and Hispaniola. The sea was rough and winds came and go, yet the Banshee performed well, and by the next dawn they spotted Tortuga on the port-side. They continued on, never stopping to founder ship in a safe harbor, too fearful of being ambushed by the undead.

Five days later they arrived in Port Royal, with a sundered mood, and an empty hold.

As the Banshee made her way to the docks, Drake knew that within moments there would be gunshots and celebrating yells from the population, as the arrival of a privateering ship always signaled prosperity and trade.

Yet there was none came for them.

Just a large group of armed men from the League Militia. Once they docked, four burly men came aboard and ordered Drake to follow to the Customs House. He did not protest, nodded toward McTavish, and did as told.

Admiral Red Leg was waiting him.

“
Drake! You old scoundrel, I was eager for your return,” exclaimed Red Leg at the sight of the young captain entering his office, “That’s good news to me.”

Morgan ‘Red Leg’ O’Neill was nicknamed the Admiral because he was one of the most influential men in Port Royal. He was the only survivor of Captain Henry Morgan’s failed assault to Puerto Principe in Cuba. Henry Morgan was destined to become the greatest member of the Brethren of the Coast had not he be slain in that perfectly planned attack turned into a trap. Red Leg had been hailed as a hero when had showed up in Port Royal claiming the Dons were ready to attack Jamaica. Thanks to this information the raid was successfully repealed and he was commissioned by Governor Thomas Modyford as Captain of the Colonial Militia. After the Chaos Years, in which all support was lost from the homeland, Jamaica had fell into turmoil and civil war, as different groups battled for supremacy in that tiny colony. At last, the League of the Antilles had won by might of arms, supported by merchant’s gold and piratical interests. Modyford’s royalists were hung at every lamppost, and he himself was lynched by the hungry mobs.

They had behaved not different from the Risen.

“
Look, Morgan, there’s been a problem with the straggler …” Drake started apologizing, but was immediately shushed by Red Leg.

“
Shh! I don’t care you returned so early and without a prize on the trail. It’s fairly evident that you botched it. Anyway, me dear friend, I’ve got something higher into my mind, than gold.”

Drake stared at him, then at the two heavily armed, evil-looking men standing guard. Red Leg’s office was large, and exquisitely fitted with a sturdy, but finely carved table covered by charts. Behind the table stood a plush chair, on which Morgan sat clutching a glass filled with red wine. A rarity these days; clearly a show of his influence. Not even the King of Nouvelle France in North America could afford a single sip.

Drake gazed into Morgan’s glowering icy-blue eyes, which were set in an oval face with a strong nose and a snow-white long mane.

What was he talking about?

Red Leg rose from his seat and with a long stride came closer to the younger captain, “I want to introduce you to a special flower borne out these cursed islands. Follow me,” then signaled his enforcers to stand guard while he led Drake to a side door.

The pair entered a lavishly furnished bedroom, partly illuminated by bright candles, in which a comfortable bed, covered by a brocade bedspread lined in silver, dominated it as a dragon warding its hoard. In a darkened corner a shadowy figure rose and came into view.

Drake’s heart stopped for an instant at the sight of that lovely figure; she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Perfect features, highlighted by lovely tall cheeks, were encased into a chocolate-brown face, as smooth and healthy as to seem unreal. Her figure was wavy and dainty, clearly shown by her lace vest in which a full bosom caught the eye of the onlooker.

“
Kaya, this is Captain Drake,” said Red Leg breaking the spell.

The girl lifted her hazelnut eyes to meet those of Drake, and he felt a shivering sensation running to his stomach.

“
So, is this the man who will bring us to Mabouyacay?”

“
Aye. He’s the captain of the Banshee’s Cry, the fastest vessel on these waves. The perfect ship to carry out your master’s will,” replied Red Leg.

“
Le Baron isn’t my master,” she said abruptly, coming closer to Drake, never lifting her stare from his eyes, “I serve the Loa’s will, yet none is my master.”

Drake could not spill out a single word, too charmed by the girl’s beauty, or something else.

‘
What’s happening to me?’ he thought.

Kaya came face-to-face and stared deeply into his eyes, looking for something. Then, she turned attention to Red Leg, “Yes. This is the right man. We have a deal, O’Neill.”

Later, they sat around a round table, enjoying a supper of roasted chicken and vegetables. Red Leg had explained him that Kaya was a Mambo; a voodoo priestess who was able to communicate with powerful spirits called Loas.

“
So, please Kaya let Drake be partaken of the true story of the Plague.” Red Leg appealed.

The Creole girl clutched her silver medallion, bearing the etched image of a coiled snake, then began her story.

“
This tale has been told to me by Baron Samedi himself, during one ceremonial mounting. In the year 1663, Captain Hackett convinced your King to approve an expedition to Las Tortugas. These isles, now known as Cayman - according to will of your namesake’s hero, Captain Drake - were first visited by Christopher Columbus in 1503. Hackett had found a secret log of the Italian explorer, in which he recounted of unholy ceremonies performed by natives – named Kalinago – into a cave complex called Mabouya’s Well. Hackett, being a fervent religious man, saw in it the Pit of the Devil and the natives as debauched Satan-worshippers. He reported to King Charles that Cayman Brac hid a secret Spaniard fortress which could threat Jamaica’s fledging colony. Ten warships set sail to Mabouyacay – as the native called the isle – and once there, Hackett put all inhabitants to the sword, set villages to fire, and finally killed the shamans in the cave.”

She paused, gulping a glass of water, eyeing Drake’s skeptic look, then continued her tale.

“
What Hackett didn’t know, was these Kalinago were buyeis, shamans whose role was to perform rituals to keep Mabouya at bay. With no one to provide sacrifices, the evil spirit enraged and sent the Plague into this world. The mariners of Hackett’s fleet became the embodiment of the Curse; when they returned to England they carried it with them.”

Drake’s gaze went to Red Leg.

The man believed this nonsensical stuff.

“
The Loa are unhappy with the current state of affairs,” continued Kaya, “especially Baron Samedi, who’s judge of the dead. He has told me how to lift the Curse of Mabouya and I know how to pass into Risen’s waters without harm.”

Red Leg was smiling now, “It is now clear what the Banshee’s role will be? We’ll be heroes, Drake; we will be like kings for lifting this Curse from humankind!”

“
You’re crazy! Blimey! Do you eat it?” Drake exploded; he was not going to lead his men into Risen territory to be slaughtered.

“
I’m not crazy, Drake. I’m a believer.” Red Leg rebuked showing his own silver medallion, and then added, “And you’re coming with me Drake, because you know what I’ll do, shall you refuse?”

He paused to have Drake get his full attention, “I’ll hang all your crew by the neck for treason. Because you still owe me six damned missed payments!”

Drake’s eyes widened. Morgan could do that, he knew the old bastard had the power.

He took a deep breath, then ignoring the older man, asked the Mambo, “Assuming I accept to lead my men to certain doom, how do you think we can stop a God?”

She smiled and replied, “There’s no God over there, just an evil spirit; a being we call a djab. No one knows how this djab was trapped into the pit, or by whom, but it has been set free and the only way to return it to imprisonment is to perform a Caille Ceremony at the Well: a sacrifice.”

“
And this should be enough to stop the Curse?”

“
I was raised to be a Mambo, Captain Drake, and I know how to perform. The rite was taught to my mother by Ghedé, the Lord of the Dead.”

“
But how do you think a single ship can intrude into the fiend’s territory? We’ll be diced to the last!” Drake was shouting.

“
There’s a way. And you’ll see it,” stated Red Leg.

****

Five days later they were at sea again, but what sailed those waters could no longer be recognized as the Banshee’s Cry.

The hull had been painted black, some red splotches flowered at the aft and the bow, and tattered black canvases fluttered at every wind’s stroke. Worse yet, were the macabre decorations bedecking the bowsprit, for nailed on it stood a dozen yellowed skulls, clinging to the wood as hellish barnacles. Both side sported fishing nets, ripe with bones they echoed the horrors at the stem, and arcane symbols, borne out of nightmares, defaced her masts.