John Locke - Now and then

"The deputy said you were kidnapped."

"Figuratively, not literally. When the descendants came and talked to me I thought they were crazy, but I promised to think about it. That night, alone in my dorm room, I started whispering my name while thinking about Hawley. And something happened. I know this will sound crazy to you, but I felt him speak my name. Over the next few months it happened several times."

"You're right, it does sound crazy."

"Told you."

"Any history of insanity in your family?"

"None that I've found, and believe me, I've looked!"

"So it started as a treasure hunt, and now you're helping people. If you want the big bucks, why not do a reality show on TV and make millions?"

"As I said, I don't want my life to be a circus. Plus, I'm deep into my research, and things I've dismissed before are starting to make sense to me."

"Like what?"

She seemed to glow, caught up in the moment. "I think I'm onto something even more valuable than money."

"What's that?"

"The secret of my heritage."

"Meaning?"

"We're all a product of our heritage, Mr. Creed."

"And why is that so important?"

She smiled. "Well, I'm descended from a famous pirate."

"Jack Hawley."

"Yes, Gentleman Jack, as he liked to be called. And about three hundred years ago-"

It was my turn to hold up a hand. "I know the story."

Libby's eyes sparkled. "Oh, no you don't."

"I do."

"Sorry, but you don't."

"Maybe not every detail," I conceded, "but I think I've got a pretty good handle on it."

"Trust me," she said. "You have no idea."

"I think I do," I said, stubbornly.

She flashed a mischievous grin. "Do you?" she said. A little giggle escaped from her throat. "Do you?" she said, louder, and as she said it her giggle grew until it burst through the tiny room and echoed off the walls.

THE YEAR OF Our Lord, 1710…

The ship was huge.

With three masts, twenty-eight guns, and a crew of fifty-seven men, it carried a cargo of sugar cane, medicine, wild pigs, and Jamaican Rum. Though it pushed more than three hundred tons, it fairly flew through the water. And such water it was! Pure and clean with a light green hue, and when the bow slapped down, sending a light spray over the deck, it stung the eye and tasted warm and salty on the lips.

The ship was surrounded on all sides by sparkling emerald seas, far as the eye could see. Astern, a dozen porpoises frolicked in the wake, performing wild acrobatic jumps and gyrations to the amusement of the twenty-two hardened crewmen currently off duty. While sailors around the world considered it good luck to share their rations with the sleek sea creatures, it was a rare event to do so, since rations were typically meager and meant to last. But for this particular crew, these were bountiful times. With the ship's hold freshly restocked the day before, the men could finally afford to toss the last of their weevil-infested biscuits overboard.

Amid-ships, a solitary man stood alone on the upper deck bridge. Lean and tall he was, with long black hair and piercing blue eyes that sparkled when he laughed or had a story to tell. But there were no stories to be told today, for he was determined to ride this strong Westerly wind as far as it would take them. He heard a fluttering sound, looked up at the sails, and frowned. Then he barked an order to the nervous helmsman.

The Quarter-Master, a stocky red-haired Welshman named Pim, tugged at his enormous fiery red muttonchops with both hands, as was his habit when annoyed. It was well known among the ship's crew that the angrier Pim became, the harder he pulled. He'd been tugging his beard with growing frequency this quarter hour, and was in fact a mere tug away from physically assaulting his fellow crewmate. The Captain's sharp word had probably saved the helmsman from a severe beating. Pim gave a nod of acknowledgment to the Captain before turning his attention to the tireless sailors who had been working the sails two hours nonstop, attempting to fill every inch of silk with wind. Up to now, they'd made great progress despite their semi-drunk helmsman's poor showing.

But the man's errant steering threatened to undermine morale.

The Captain glared at his tipsy crewmember, and cocked his head as if to convey a final warning. The Helmsman, sober enough to catch his meaning, immediately apologized to the Quarter-Master and sailors. It was a sincere apology and a wise decision on his part, considering the harsh penalties for drunkenness while under sail. In normal circumstances, when transporting cargo to port, a drunken helmsman would at the very least be treated to five lashes across the bare back with a rope dipped in tar. Had the infraction occurred under battle conditions, he would surely suffer death by keelhaul.

But neither Captain nor crew were in a mood to punish anyone today. As the steering adjustment took effect, both the Captain and Pim checked the sail before catching each others' eye. The Captain winked, and Pim pumped his fist in the air and shouted to his sailors, "Keep 'er sheets full, lads! As big and full as the jugs of St. Alban's."

Roberts, the sharp-eyed lookout, shouted down from the crow's nest. "Aye, and which jugs would ye be referrin' to, Mr. Pim? Them that's filled with grog or them that's filled with milk?"

The crew members laughed lustily. Those who glanced in the Captain's direction noticed a smile on his handsome face, and to a man, their spirits soared. This crew had worked on many ships, for many masters, but none had worked for a man like this. A frown from him was enough to shake their confidence, but his smile was like gold in their pockets. This was a Captain who owned the hearts and minds of his crew, having earned his status the same way all pirate ship captains wielded absolute authority over their vessels: by unanimous vote of the crew. True, he had proven himself a legendary strategist, loyal friend, and fierce fighter. But there was something more, some indefinable, mysterious quality that was difficult to pin down. The men couldn't explain it, but they felt more powerful in his presence. Less surly, more content. Crazy as it sounded when speaking of it to each other, they agreed that they could somehow feel his presence when he was within a mile's distance. More importantly, from the moment he'd stepped on board, their fortunes increased. Winds were stronger, storms fewer, and waters more peaceful and calm than ever before. There had been fewer injuries and illness, and the wounds that did occur healed faster. Even the food seemed to taste better when the Captain was on board.

The Captain had joined them two years ago. Now, after several campaigns at sea, he and his ship, The Fortress, had become well-known throughout the Caribbean. No, more than that: they had achieved celebrity status.

The porpoises abruptly ended their show and darted ahead, providing escort for a league or so before finally peeling off in search of some alternate aquatic activity.

When The Fortress was under full sail, with a strong wind, she could cover a hundred miles in a day. But they wouldn't require a full day to reach Shark's Bay. At this speed, they'd have the Captain dropped off there by mid afternoon. As always, he'd change into commoner's clothes, lower an open boat into the water, and row it over the shoals, up the Little River to the edge of St. Alban's Settlement to scope out the lay of the land. The Fortress would head back out to sea three miles, make a wide loop, and then double back to St. Alban's, to the deep water of North Port, off Sinner's Row, where she would finally anchor in sixty feet of water a quarter mile out and wait for word from the Captain that it was safe to go ashore.