1670, Caribbean Sea. She's the daughter of a legendary pirate. He's a Spanish captain. Their countries are at war. Their fathers killed each other. And they were destined to follow on their steps.
But sometimes destiny isn't written in stone: it's w...
Marina spent the night on deck. She forbid the night shift to wake De Neill up, in case they needed him fresh and sharp early in the morning. Morris made sure the guards and lookouts were wide awake and Philip didn't need any help with the helm, then he headed to the bridge. But Marina wasn't there.
"She's at the crosstree. And she's wearing black."
Morris spun, surprised, to find Maxó sitting on a roll of ropes, mug of rum in hand.
"Don't get drunk, old wolf," he said. "If the Devil sticks his tail, we're bumping onto the Lion in the middle of the night."
"The Devil already stuck his pointy tail. The day he made Castillano kill Wan Claup in front of the pearl."
Morris didn't bother to reply and turned to look ahead. When Maxó got spooky gloomy, nobody could change his mood.
The hours seemed to crawl as the Phantom sailed around La Hispaniola's southwest end. Marina only came down from the crosstree to rest on the maintop, where the lookout saw her so deep in thought that he didn't dare to speak to her. Now and then, Morris would sit down for a while by Maxó, who had fallen asleep and snored as to wake the dead. Well, at least he wouldn't bother the men resting below deck.
They reached Tiburon Point two hours before dawn. Only then Marina came down from the maintop. She ordered to keep the ship lying to the wind with a light mooring, bow to the west so they wouldn't waste any time getting underway. She also had all the lookouts replaced, to keep sharp eyes on the waters around. She accepted the tea Pierre offered her, but refused any food. Her belly was a tight knot. Far from receding, her distress grew by the hour. She joined Morris on the bridge but they didn't trade a word, and she started strolling from one side to the other and back, nonstop.
The sun gilded the higher clouds to the east when Morris saw the girl stop sharply by the larboard gunwale, face to the south, spin around and run to the starboard side. He looked up at the tops, checking the lookouts had made no signs, and looked down at the girl, frowning.
Marina realized her hands were shaking when she opened the telescope to scan the northern horizon. Where was he? Why couldn't she see him if she could feel him so intensely?
"Starboard ahoy! Sails from the north! Burgundy Cross!" the man at the maintop shouted.
Morris raised his voice to ask, "How many masts?"
"Three! Tall ship! Warrior or frigate!"
Marina turned to meet Morris' suspicious look. "It's him," she said, positive. "Beat to quarters. Everybody up and to their battle stations."
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Castillano had pretty much fled Santiago. Santo Domingo Governor had sent him there with "urgent documents containing vital information", which he had delivered as instructed before running back to the Lion and ordering to weigh anchor in the middle of the afternoon. He didn't want to be still docked when Somebody thought of asking him to take a letter to another Somebody in Havana or Puerto Rico. He didn't want any more errands. They would restock the Lion in Santo Domingo, and from there they'd head straight to Maracaibo to join the Armada. And if God smiled down at him, he'd hunt a couple of seadogs along the way. Like the Jamaican he'd been forced to overlook on the way to Santiago.
The Lion sailed across the Windward Passage in the middle of the night, and spotted Tiburon Point with the first light. It was still two hours till the night shift was over, and the bell called everybody up for the morning prayer, when Castillano jolted awake. He kept from hitting his head with the beam just out of habit and jumped off of his hammock, picking up his clothes from the floor in a hurry. He didn't know what was going on, but he needed to be on the bridge.
His rush woke Alonso up. "What is it, Hernan?" he asked, frowning from his hammock. "It's hardly dawning."
"I don't know, Luis. But I need to be out."
Castillano had hardly walked out of the cabin when the call of a lookout pushed Alonso to sit up.
"Starboard bow ahoy! Boat ahead! French flag!"
Alonso got up, grunting, as the bell beat to quarters. Damned Hernan! How had he known?
Castillano hurried to the bridge still tying up his trousers, his shirt bottoms hanging over his sash, and took the telescope Tomasillo handed him.
"One point off the starboard bow, Captain, heading west. It's smaller than a frigate, but it's got three masts."
A tight smile pursed Castillano's lips. There was only one French three-mast ship in the whole Caribbean Sea that wasn't a frigate: the Phantom.
"Full sail after her," he ordered, lowering the telescope with his eyes on the horizon. "Battle stations."
"Aye, aye, Lion!"
Alonso joined him soon and snatched the telescope from his hands. "Watch your looks, dammit. We're no seadogs," he scolded Castillano. "We dress properly whether at war or peace."
Castillano rolled his eyes but pushed his shirt bottoms into his sash, wore the coat his assistant had left on the handrail, clubbed his hair and fastened the sword sheath to his side.
"Happy now, darling?" he asked, exasperated.
Alonso chuckled and kept studying the French ship through the telescope.
"It's the Phantom, Luis," Castillano said, lowering his voice.
"You sure?"
"Three masts, French colors, smaller than a light frigate."
"She's running west. If we chase her, we'll be off course."
"And I'll be damned if I care."
Alonso smiled. "Glad to hear you."
"Make sure the batteries are ready."
"Aye, aye, Captain!"
Castillano remained alone on the bridge, his blue eyes fixed on the tiny spot the French ship was to the naked eye on the horizon. Begging God, Jesus and Holy Mary for it to really be the Phantom. It was time to acknowledge all the messages he'd received in person. And prove all those foolish tales about a corsair woman were only that: silly tales of the deep.
Both ships seemed to fly over the sea, away from the shore. The French warrior was a runner, and the Lion couldn't shorten the distance to bring it within range. Until it seemed to reach a zone with weaker winds. The sun rose behind the Lion, that finally started to catch up.
Castillano raised his telescope once again and read the golden letters glimmering on the transom: Phantom. A chill ran down his back, pushing his hands a few inches up. And the lens showed him the dark figure in the sunrise, standing at the Phantom's taffrail. A figure clad entirely in black.
He lowered the telescope for a moment to take a deep breath, while his memory unwillingly brought back another figure clad in black, in the main hall of his own home in Campeche. The figure of his father's killer. He set his jaw and looked again. The Ghost was dead. He himself had seen him die. His own father had killed him. So that man on the Phantom's bridge was somebody else. And he wanted to see his face.
Another chill ran down his spine when he pointed the lens back to the corsair bridge. For that was no man. The height and the slender figure showed it was hardly older than a child.
Castillano lowered the telescope yet once more, and he found his own hand rubbing the scar along his cheekbone. His eyes just couldn't look away from that still figure up ahead, arms folded, facing him. As if he could look straight at him through the miles between them.
When they were finally in range of the Lion's chasers, Castillano ordered a warning shot. The answer was the black flag unfurled atop the Phantom's mainmast.
