The Pandora Chronicles - Book 1 (A Scifi Adventure Thriller) (2 page)

A loud crashing noise snapped Finnegan from his peaceful meditation. On the docks, he saw three of his crew members, with a crate smashed open in front of them, and a dozen guards in red uniforms, carrying musket rifles. One of the crew members yelled something to the man leading the other soldiers.

“Watch how you speak to King’s Men, sailor,” the lead soldier bellowed as he spat in the crewman’s face.

“Damn red coat! You’ll pay for that,” the crewman snarled in response while extracting a long, dull knife from his belt. The pirate waved the fish gutter around as the soldiers fell into formation. The lead soldier quickly grasped his rifle and aimed it at the crewman’s face.
 

At the step of the gangplank, the quartermaster raised his head to look at Finnegan and yelled with a tone of urgency.
 

“Captain Finnegan, Sir!”

Finnegan was already halfway down the gangplank and running towards the altercation. He drew his sword and stepped between the soldier and his crewman. With his free hand, he grasped the crewman’s wrist and drove his weapon-arm down, sending the man crashing into the ground once more. At the same time, he struck the rifle with his sword, directing it away from his crew members.
 

A shot sailed harmlessly over the ocean.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the soldier yelled.

“I am King’s Men, just like yourself. Let us go about our business.” Finnegan’s tone bore such an authority that some of the soldiers recoiled.

“I see no King’s Men here,” the lead soldier said. He nodded at his men. “Arrest them!”

Captain Finnegan crouched down, scooping up the fish gutter his crewman had dropped and threw himself at the approaching soldiers. Since he had no firearms of his own, his only tactic was to get so close that their rifles would be useless. He struck one man in his shoulder as he deflected the bayonet of another with his saber. Pushing the man back into his companions, Finnegan spun and lifted his leg. The heel of his boot connected with the leader’s jaw and sent him sprawling on the ground.

A single shot rang loud in the air, stunting the fight. A small army of soldiers, their uniforms more pristine and regal, surrounded Finnegan and his crew members, as well as the first group of soldiers. Finnegan dropped the knife and slowly sheathed his sword.

“I do not wish to fight,” he said, raising both hands. “My crew and I are King’s Men. We’re just minding our own business.”

“I shall be the judge of that, pirate.”

The voice came from a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a white-feathered hat and bearing on his uniform a captain’s insignia. As he passed the leader of the soldiers who attacked Finnegan’s crew, he huffed in disgust at him and muttered “get up” with utter venom.

“I have a Letter of Marque,” Finnegan said, extracting the folded document from his pocket.
 

The soldier captain’s narrow eyes darted from side to side as he quickly inspected the paper.

“So it would seem, Captain Jack Finnegan of the
Belladonna
,” he finally said, handing the document back to its owner. “You aren’t, per chance, the same Captain Finnegan who ransacked three Spanish galleons on his first mission from the King?”

“Yes, Sir, in the flesh.”

“Remarkable,” the captain said, with a slight bow. “I apologize for my subordinate’s incompetence. But if there’s any more trouble during your stay in Port Royale, I will have both you and your associates shot. Am I understood?”

The two men stood there eyeing one another for nearly two minutes until Finnegan broke the tense silence. “Very well,” he said with as much amicability as he could muster. “We shall be on our way shortly.”

“Excellent,” the soldier captain replied. Then he spun on his heels, and at the wave of his hand, all the soldiers dispersed back to their regular stations.

“Quartermaster,” Finnegan said, once the last of the soldiers had vanished from sight. “Have the men resume their tasks, then let us reconvene at Annie’s for a drink and a warm meal.”

“Aye, Captain,” the quartermaster replied.
 

Finnegan was about to climb back on his beloved ship when something caught his eye—a carriage, white and pristine. It had been absent when they
 
docked earlier in the day. Finnegan assumed it had stopped to witness the fight between him and the soldiers, as did the majority of the other port workers. But once the real army showed up, everyone had dispersed.

Except for that carriage.

He peered more closely at it and heard whoever was inside bark an order. A well-dressed elderly man hurriedly climbed behind the horses and coerced them into motion. The sudden movement jerked the curtain open for the slightest of seconds and all Finnegan saw was a single lock of golden hair.

Chapter 2

Annie’s tavern was the ideal place for spending a night at port.
 

Drink, women, and song were aplenty, and men from across the Caribbean made it a point to stop by in between their voyages. The atmosphere inside was as rugged as the men who frequented the tavern, with dark oaken furniture easily spotted through a thick cloud of smoke that permanently coated the ceiling of the establishment, and serving girls in bright crimson skirts carrying tray after tray loaded with mugs, flagons and every manner of drink. The background was alive with the constant buzz of sailors ranting in drunken stupors as they either drowned their sorrows in a flask, or looked for an opportunity to bed one of the girls.

Captain Finnegan’s men sat around a single table with a large quantity of empty mugs in front of them. He noticed as their gazes shifted from one working girl to another, their eyes lustful, and their mouths almost salivating. But none dared leave without their captain’s permission.

It was tradition for the crew of the
Belladonna
to go to their favorite watering hole and share a drink together. Finnegan had insisted upon it. The first lesson he learned at sea was that the crew was like a family—the better they worked together, the more successful their enterprise. Therefore, it was vital to strengthen their bond. Out at sea, he harshly punished crimes which jeopardized the integrity of his crew. The captain did not tolerate anyone who threatened his family.

None of the crew complained. They had the entire night to themselves, and it was still the early hours of evening. There would be plenty of time to get drunk and enjoy the company of working women. But if their captain demanded their attention for one drink, they would gladly oblige.
 

Besides, no proper sailor ever refused a free drink.

“You have done well on this voyage, gentlemen,” Finnegan said, as he looked each individual crew member in the eye. “We have amassed quite a bounty, and I am sure our patron will be most pleased.”
 

He turned in his seat and caught the attention of the tavern owner
.

Annie was a portly woman of British descent, and always happy to see Finnegan. Like the captain, she was easy-going and nice, but quick to anger at anyone who dared to cheat her out of her dues or disturbed her girls too much. Finnegan had broken up a fight or two in her tavern, and she would recompense his efforts with the occasional free round of drinks.

“What’ll it be, sweetie?” she asked from behind the counter, beaming at their table. The crew collectively smiled back at her. Annie was one woman who had earned their respect.

“What do you suggest be given to a crew after a very successful voyage?” Finnegan yelled, loud enough to be heard over the chatter and ambient noise.

The crowd fell somewhat silent. Yelling out one’s success meant that one had money on their person. That was the easiest way to have your throat slit and your pockets picked whilst bleeding to death. No one in their right mind would advertise their plunder.

But none dared go up against the crew of the
Belladonna,
even if they were alone. Everyone knew of their legendary exploits—they had all heard the stories. The line between fact and fiction blurred easily and, if it meant protecting his crew and perhaps getting a free drink at a tavern, then it suited Finnegan quite well.

Annie put down the rag she was using to wipe the counter.

“Be this the same crew captained by the man who bested all those soldiers this afternoon all by his self?” she inquired.

Finnegan smiled, inwardly thanking Annie. The tavern owner was something of a conversationalist, often spreading rumors and managing the grapevine on this side of Port Royale. She had helped Finnegan build his reputation, either by disseminating facts or fabricating legends. Once the local patrons heard of Finnegan’s tussle with the soldiers from Annie, they would believe its authenticity.

“That it be,” Finnegan replied.

“Then, a round of drinks for all is in order. On the house, of course.”
 

At the notion of that, each patron, including the crew, raised their mugs and yelled a salute.
 

“Make it a double and may none of ‘em ever be tormented by those British wig-wearers,” Finnegan yelled against the ruckus. The crowd cheered and hollered once more. Free rounds and a joke at the expense of their colonial masters—Finnegan had won their favor until he would depart again.

“Well, gentlemen,” Finnegan said turning back to his crew. “It will take a few days until we are ready to make sail again. Until then, your orders are to drink, dance, fornicate, and otherwise engage in as much debauchery as it pleases you.”

“Aye, Captain,” came a collective shout from the crew members. Seconds later, they vacated the table. Some headed straight to the bar, while others dashed from one girl to another, asking for availability.

Only the first mate and quartermaster remained seated. “Your orders for us, Captain?” the former asked.

Finnegan reached across the table and tapped them on the shoulder.
 

When Finnegan was assigned the
Belladonna,
they both signed up at the same time. The pair were the best of friends, often bickering akin to brothers, but quick to make up and help one another in tough situations. The crew respected them as their superiors. They both knew their strengths and weaknesses. The first mate was a natural sailor, able to relay orders from across the ship with precision and accuracy. He could coordinate the crew in times of battle with the ferocity of a general and was also quite the scholar, being one of the few aboard the
Belladonna
who could read and calculate, often being in charge of dividing up the crew’s shares. The quartermaster was a diplomatic fellow who rarely resorted to using the whip he carried around with him. He could quell a dispute just by saying a few words and, like a wise overlord, knew when to intervene and when to let things settle down naturally. He could read people as easily as scribes could read words, and served as the
Belladonna
’s recruiter during expeditions.

“Both of you were indispensable on this voyage,” Finnegan replied. “I suggest you enjoy yourselves as much as you can. Just make sure that none of the other lads get in too much trouble.”

“Aye, Captain,” the first mate replied as they both rose up. They turned to leave.
 

“By the by, Captain,” the first mate said, pointing at the bar. “I think our host would like a word with you.”

Finnegan nodded, drained his mug and made his way towards the bar. Annie handed him a glass of rum and pointed to the far side of the bar.

“Someone bought you a drink, Captain. Fancy you, havin’ an admirer,” she said with a sly smile.

“You know I only have eyes for you, my dear Annie,” Finnegan replied with a grin. They both chuckled and once Finnegan had downed his rum, he casually walked over to the hooded man and his companion, who sat on the adjacent stool nervously looking from side to side.

From this distance, he could see long strands of blond hair emerge from beneath the hood as the mysterious figure sat delicately on a bar stool, sipping on a mug. The other man was dressed in priestly garb and holding a black box, which he hugged close to his chest as he drank his port in one gulp.

“Good evening,” Finnegan said as he occupied the stool next to the hooded man.

“Evening,” the hooded figure replied, lifting his hood.

Finnegan was pleasantly surprised to find himself looking at a young woman, with perfect facial features and mesmerizing doe eyes.

“Annie has certainly elevated the standards of her companions,” Finnegan said as his eyes ran down her body. He wasn’t one to engage in too much debauchery, but if it were with this beautiful a woman, he would court her all the way to the nearest inn and spend entire days locked inside with her.

“The Duchess is not that kind of woman,” the priest sternly replied.

Finnegan eyed him, noticing his features and accent, and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword. “What’s a Spaniard doing on English soil?”

“I am Portuguese.”

“Same difference.”

“I am not Spanish. I am your ally,” the priest whimpered, eyeing the sword.
 

The lady placed her hand on Finnegan’s arm, placating him. “We simply wish to talk,” she said. “I was told you can help me.”

“I am beginning to think that I am not going to spend the night with you, am I?” Finnegan said with a hint of resignation.