Traveler's notes

Came across a smuggler's cache yesterday—found a pinch of gunpowder and a bottle of rum. If their other hideouts are as bare, they must be in bad shape. Rumor has it smuggling on Tortuga is run by Henry Every. Probably nonsense. His Fancy hasn't put to sea in twenty years, though once they told legends about him. One of them says Henry took an Indian ship whose holds were bursting with treasure. With the first broadside the lucky pirate shot away the mainmast, and went in to board. Mr. Every fought at the fore and crossed blades with the Indian captain. They seemed evenly matched until the Indian slipped. Henry pressed a blade to his throat, tore away the face-covering cloth, and froze—staring at a beautiful woman. A princess of the Mughal Empire. The ship's true captain was hiding in the hold like a coward. Henry had him keelhauled, but ordered the princess and her escort left untouched. After that, Henry Every vanished with the riches. No one saw the princess again, either. Some said she threw herself into the sea; others, that she married a fortunate corsair… Whether Henry Every truly built a smuggling network on Tortuga, I couldn't say—but whoever did, my thanks. I waited out the rain in the cache and moved on. I'll bury the excess gear nearby, beneath the tree marked with a red rag. Maybe I'll visit this place again one day. — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, a traveler

—After spending the night in one of the caves, I nearly ran into the men of Thomas Richards. I have no desire to meet the man himself. I once heard a tale from an innkeeper on Tortuga about a quick-witted Spanish woman who managed to fend off Richards' cutthroats. At the time, she was serving as first mate aboard a merchant vessel bound for the West Indies, its hold packed with outrageously expensive Spanish wine. As they neared Hispaniola, a pirate ship bore down on them. The captain prepared to surrender, but the crew refused—Richards was known for leaving no survivors. That was when the Spaniard proposed breaking the wine bottles and scattering the shards across the deck, so the pirates would slash their feet the moment they boarded. Said and done. The crew barely had time to spread the glass and hide in the cabin before the first cutthroats leapt aboard… and immediately howled in pain. Their screams were answered by precise gunshots fired through a small window in the cabin door. In the end, Richards sailed off empty-handed. The crew celebrated their victory—but the captain fumed. He cursed the Spaniard for weeks and eventually put her ashore at the nearest port without pay. After all, thanks to her, he had lost his entire precious cargo. The innkeeper claimed she wasn't troubled by this in the slightest. Later, she acquired a ship of her own—and keeps a few crates of fine wine in the hold. Just in case. Best for me to put some distance between myself and these caves while I still can. As always, I'll bury the excess gear beneath a tree marked with a red cloth. Just in case. — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler

In all my misadventures on these lost islands, I haven't seen a single ship of the Brethren of the Coast—only their wrecks, washed ashore by the sea. Blackbeard's pirates, on the other hand, are everywhere. In the old days, the head of the Brethren, Benjamin Hornigold, would have dealt with Teach easily—but these are hard times for him… His crew loved the story about him robbing the Spanish galleon. Back when he was a young pirate, Hornigold had his sloop fly the Spanish flag, posing as a merchant to avoid suspicion. After all, what Spaniard would imagine that some puny sloop would dare attack a galleon? Pure madness. But for Hornigold it was a matter of honor. The galleon's captain had been ordered by the King himself to rid the pirates of Tortuga. Absorbed in the card game, the Spanish captain paid no heed to the reports of an approaching ship and didn't even post a watch. That was exactly what Hornigold was counting on. When he struck with his men, the Spaniards panicked and offered no resistance. Hornigold walked away with a fine haul—and the Spanish captain's entire winnings, for by fate's irony the man had been lucky at cards that day. Along with the winnings, Benjamin took his splendid, wide-brimmed hat, remarking that it alone had been worth the boarding. Thus Hornigold became one of the West Indies' most famous captains, and later the leader of the Brethren of the Coast. I found a few useful trinkets in the wreckage. Pity it wasn't the hat—I could have used it. But I'll have to travel light from here on. I'll bury the chest again beneath the tree marked with a strip of red cloth. Perhaps I'll come back for it someday. — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler

Pirates are searching the ruins for something. I hid among the rocks to listen in and caught the name Israel Hands. Nearly gave myself away. Plenty of rumors circulate about him on Tortuga. They say Hands was born into a large merchant family in Bristol. The elder brothers inherited the business—while he, as in a fairy tale, was left with nothing but a cat. And as if that weren't enough, his father was said to hit the bottle almost every night, beating both his wife and his youngest son—for good measure. One evening, after the old man once again had one too many, misfortune struck: he tumbled down the stairs and smashed his head… at least a dozen times. Took a few ribs with it too. Must have been a very long staircase. After that, Hands decided to take fate into his own hands and ran off to see the fabled New World. In the harbor he signed on with a small privateer vessel, where he met Edward Teach. Later, without much thought, Hands followed him into the service of Benjamin Hornigold, back when Hornigold was still a pirate himself. They say it was under Hornigold that Hands earned the nickname “Basilica.” Whether for a fondness for churches—or for nuns—I couldn't say. I don't know what Hands' men are looking for here, but I'd best put some distance between us. Even wolves are safer company. As usual, I'll have to stash my excess belongings beneath a fallen log marked with a red cloth… — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler

The drowned prowled near my hideout last night. Their bloated carcasses blundered through the thick brush, leaving wet trails behind them—and the reek of decay. Someone must have truly angered Davy Jones for him to open his locker and let the dead wander the earth. I've read that sailors once swore by Neptune's name, and only a couple of centuries ago began whispering the name of Davy Jones—the sea-devil from Hell. No one knows where the legends of him began. But once I heard an old innkeeper tell a story passed down from one of his ancestor. That man captained a Spanish carrack, and his ship was caught in a terrible storm. Sky traded places with sea, lightning flashed without cease, and the captain begged every sea spirit and demon he could name—anything to reach harbor alive. Then a richly dressed stranger appeared in his cabin and offered a bargain: for three years the captain would sail the seas without misfortune, and exactly three years hence Davy Jones would come for him—to take him into service. The captain agreed. The sea grew calm, the thunderclouds broke, a fair wind rose—and the stranger vanished as though he had never been there at all. For the next three years fortune favored the captain. Neither storms, nor enemy guns, nor even sickness threatened him or his crew. He grew rich, he married… and then the debt came due. He dreaded that day. He was content with his life and had no desire to serve the devil. But one evening at sunset, the same stranger knocked at the door of his new home. The captain let him in and laid out a lavish supper in thanks for the luck he'd been granted. One last taste of human food, he thought, before a long, long service. The devil agreed. Dish followed dish, the winecups stayed full, and time seemed to stop at midnight… until a rooster crowed. The devil sprang up, his features twisting with rage—he understood at once he'd been tricked. The captain's cunning wife had been turning the clock back again and again, hoping that at dawn Davy Jones would be forced to depart and leave her husband in peace. And so he did: the devil dissolved into the first light of morning. The captain never went to sea again, and forbade his children to go near it. Yet his ship later sailed under a new master—and vanished with all hands. Davy Jones took them for his own. The innkeeper ended the tale with this: that crew still roams the seas, restless, hunting their traitor captain. So don't try to cheat Davy Jones. He always comes back to collect what he's owed. I sat awake in my shelter the whole night, listening to every rustle. And when the first rays touched the sky, I left my things beneath the tree marked with a red cloth and fled. — from the diary of Alexander Exquemelin, traveler

I've seen enough madmen in my time to say this: the man who told me his tale was no lunatic. Barefoot and dressed in filthy rags, a beggar was pleading for alms by the inn door, muttering nonsense under his breath. I asked the barmaid for a bottle of rum and two cups, filled one, and offered it to him. With trembling hands he tossed it back like water and asked for more. I poured again—and listened… There were ten of them: those who dared hunt treasure among ancient graves in the Swamps. The rest were frightened by talk of a curse—and they were right to be. Nine stayed there forever. They truly did find gold in the ruins. Rejoicing like children, they spent the day hauling gemstones from stone chests until sundown. They decided to camp in the Swamps for the night. And in the night, the trees began to move. From the mire rose a great mass of earth and knotted roots. Human limbs dangled from within it. With a single sweep of its wooden arm it crushed two at once; three more fled in terror straight into the bog. The remaining five ran for the shore and stopped only when the crashing behind them fell silent. At that very moment, hundreds of sharp wooden spikes burst from the ground and punched through their bodies. Only one man tore his wounded arm free of that deadly grip. He ran and ran until he collapsed on the sand from exhaustion… Tonight I'll sleep under the roof of these ancient ruins. Let my things remain outside—safer in a chest beneath the tree marked with a red cloth. I didn't take the dead men's treasure, so I dare hope the guardians of this place won't touch me—assuming they aren't merely the invention of a sick mind. — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler

It began with a wolf latching onto my poor boot and tearing it straight off my foot. At least I managed to grab my sack and bolt before that fanged maw snapped shut on my calf. The pack was far more interested in the smell of goat meat sizzling over the fire than in my rapidly retreating carcass, so I made it to the ruins and waited out the night under a roof—accompanied only by the disgruntled complaints of my empty stomach. But no sooner had I—hungry and short on sleep—stepped beyond the ruins to gather ripe corn than an enormous goat set upon me! The wretched beast chased me across the entire field without pause, lunging again and again, intent on goring me. I lost my second boot on the run and, without looking, plunged through the floor of yet another ruin. Only then did the goat finally lose interest, parting with a triumphant cry, as if the victory were its own. My beloved boots are a bitter loss—I paid the buccaneers a whole handful of good, full-weight piastres for them. While hauling myself out of the rubble, I shredded my hands and feet on thorns. They say crocodile leather makes fine boots… but with my luck, I've no business hunting crocodiles. Naturally, I didn't go back for my things, though I did manage—out of habit—to stash a few items beneath the tree marked with a red cloth. — from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler