Dead Man's Chest (The Plundered Chronicles Book 5)

  Dead Man’s Chest

  The Plundered Chronicles: Book 5

  Alex Westmore

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously. The publisher has no control over, and is not responsible for, any third party websites or their contents.

  Dead Man’s Chest © 2018 by Alex Westmore

  Contact the author through her website: www.alexwestmore.net

  Chief Editor: Rachel Porter

  Cover Design: Mallory Rock

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Map of Renaissance Europe

  Dead Man’s Chest

  About the Author

  Other Series From This Author

  Map of Renaissance Europe

  There were so many sails in the water, Quinn Gallagher could not gauge how far away the Spanish Armada was from the front of the formidable English fleet Elizabeth had sent to repel them.

  In all the years she’d been on the sea, Quinn had never seen this many sails, this many Spanish Galleons all aimed toward the English coast. It was as exhilarating as it was scary.

  She’s never doubted that the Catholic Spaniards would go after the Protestant English Queen Elizabeth, but this show of strength was awe-inspiring.

  Quinn could hear the many cannon blasts from both sides in front of her ship, and it gave her a moment’s pause. This was going to cost both sides many lives…and for what? Spain would never conquer England and England had no desires on Spain.

  It was all about their damnable religion.

  “I knew the Spanish King was goin’ fer broke, Captain, but I never thought he’d send over a hundred ships.” Quinn’s first mate, Fitz said into the harsh wind that seemed to carry his words away. “It kinda takes yer breath away, eh?”

  “Aye, Fitz,” Quinn replied, closing her telescope. “This is one of those battles that could verra well change the world.” Running her hand through her short brown hair, Quinn sighed. As much as the Irish hated the English, she just wasn’t sure she could ever side with Spain after what they had done to her crew in the name of the Inquisition. “And as much as we are not ready for our world to be changed, I’m afraid it will happen with or without us.”

  “Don’t doubt yourself, Captain. We may be Irish, but we got more in common with those Spaniards out there than we will ever have with the bloody English. The crew is damn near wettin’ themselves to finally have a go at that bitch’s fleet.”

  That “bitch” was Queen Elizabeth…the one monarch who had her sights on their island and had planted many English there in an effort to grow a population of English citizens.

  Quinn peered out at the Spanish galleons bobbing just off the coast of Calais. “They should have attacked at Plymouth. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  A rectangle of a man joined them on the deck of the Emerald, his shoulder-length red hair blowing behind him, only the gray flecks in his stubble gave any indication of his age. “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on the Malendroke, lad. Grace has slowed her down as well. She musta saw something; she didn’t care for.”

  “Thank you, Tavish,” Quinn said to her best friend. Tavish McGee might not have been Irish, but he had been fighting alongside her for nearly eleven years now, and he well knew the score of a religious game now being played out on the water. “We need to keep an eye out on her. If she doesn’t withdraw when she ought, I’m afraid we’re going to have to make a verra hard decision.”

  Tavish stared out at the ships. “Ya feelin’ ennathin’ in yer bones?”

  Quinn turned from the wheel. “Why do you ask?”

  Tavish pointed to the Malendroke. “See how she has her nose pointed slightly left?”

  Fitz followed Tavish’s gaze. “Oh, aye. Captain O’Malley either knows somethin’ or feels the weather in her bones, but she is leanin’ toward bailin’ outta this mess.”

  Grace O’Malley, a pirate queen who had once been their captain, was well known for her uncanny ability of predicting when the weather was getting ready to turn.

  “I see that. Either way, if she peels out of formation, we will go with her.” Quinn returned her attention to the battlefield. The Spanish armada was composed of 130 ships, nearly 10,000 sailors, almost 20,000 soldiers, and nearly 3,000 cannons, and that did not include the Irish, Scottish, or the ships in the Spanish Netherlands who had come to lend an aid against the Protestant Elizabeth, Quinn had never, not in her nearly eleven years at sea, seen so many ships on the water at once.

  Ever.

  And though this battle was between Protestant England and Catholic Spain, Quinn, Grace, and a number of other Irish pirate ships were joining in an effort to get Elizabeth off the throne.

  Elizabeth.

  Just her name made Quinn shudder. She had followed her father’s attempt to slowly take over Ireland by emigrating English lords and nobles in Ireland to some of the choices pieces of land…a step that tore the country apart as clan leaders dropped their clan allegiances in exchange for titles of nobility.

  In essence, she was destroying the Irish way of life by focusing on man’s greed and lust for power.

  It sickened her to see her people used thusly.

  “Lad?”

  Quinn turned to Tavish. He had kept calling her lad long after she revealed to the crew she’d been masquerading as a man in order to remain on Grace’s ship.

  “Ya thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  Quinn looked through her telescope once more. A sense of dread wafted over her. “The English ships are smaller than the galleons—faster. This worries me. It’s probably why Grace is prepared to bail out.”

  The booming sounds of repeated guns firing filled the air along with smoke from cannons and ships that were burning.

  “Ya ken why she’s here, right? It’s not for Ireland at all. She wants Francis Drake.”

  Fitz nodded. “Big Red is right. This is personal for her, Captain. We can’t afford to follow her into her madness.”

  While it was true Captain Grace O’Malley had, of late, made some questionable decisions, she was still their friend and clanmate, even if her obsession with Drake was slightly mad.

  “I’ll not have enna body speaking ill of Grace, Fitz. She is still a damn fine captain and a loyal Irishman.”

  “It’s just—”

  Quinn held her hand up. “That’s enough. Our concern is about our ship in this fight.”

  “Aye. Sorry, Captain.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Quinn said, casting her gaze on the setting sun. “It’s been a week of this cat and mouse… a week of back and forth.” Turning to Fitz, she ordered, “Get the men ready to sail out of this formation.”

  Fitz nodded and scurried down the steps.

  “What are you thinkin’, lad? We came this far, and now, yer considerin’ bailin’? What’s in that heada yers?”

  “I’ve been watching the Spanish fight for years now. They fire then board, right?”

  Tavish shrugged. “That about sums it up, aye. They’re not the most creative blokes when it comes to battle.”

  “Those smaller English ships are staying out of reach of the grappling hooks, making it nearly impossible for the Spanish crew to mount any real attack. If they don’t start relying on cannon fire and attac
king from a distance, they won’t win this. That’s why Grace has turned. She sees it, too.”

  “What do you wanna do, lad?”

  “I want to talk to Grace. I’m no longer certain this is a wise place for us to be enna more. Maybe this time, we just sit out this fight and let their God determine their fate.”

  Tavish laid a gnarled hand on Quinn’s shoulders. “The men trust yer instincts. If ya think turnin’ back is the right thing to do, ya doona need Grace’s opinion or advice. Trust yer gut. We all do.”

  “While I appreciate the loyalty, old friend, I won’t leave Grace and the Malendroke alone among these bastards. She would never leave us if the roles were reversed.”

  “Leave us among the English?”

  Quinn shook her head. “All of them.”

  Quinn stood on the deck of her old ship, the Malendroke, facing her old captain and friend, Grace O’Malley.

  Her red hair tied in a ponytail was streaked with gray, and her face held a few more lines, but she was still beautiful in Quinn’s eyes. The woman called the Scourge of the High Seas by many was a fierce warrior with unwavering loyalty to her countrymen. It was why she was a pirate in the first place; to help her people take back some of what was being stripped from them.

  “Callaghan. I am surprised to find ya aboard.” Grace hugged Quinn tightly. “But I’m sure happy to see you.”

  Backing out of the hug, Quinn smiled. “We Irish have to stay together, aye?”

  Grace sighed and turned to walk to the captain’s quarters where she pulled out a flask of whisky and pulled out two glasses. “Like old times, eh, Callaghan?”

  Quinn sat at the small, rickety table across from Grace as she had so many times before when Quinn was a crew member on the Malendroke.

  Grace poured the whiskey and raised her glass. “Dhéanamh sintá fáetha taobh thiar.”

  Quinn tipped hers against Grace’s before downing the brown liquid. After years of drinking the fiery liquid, she still had never acquired a taste for it. “You see it, too, don’t you?”

  Grace poured them two more. “I see a great deal, Callaghan. What are ya talkin’ about specifically?”

  “The method of attack. The Spaniards aren’t seeing the errors of their ways, and it’s going to cost them this war if they don’t see it,”

  Grace pushed her chair back to lean her knee on the table. Both drinks wobbled slightly. “Aye, it will, and no, they do not see it. Their ships are more heavily armed, but much, much slower. If they do not abandon their old ways, the English will defeat them with their new ways.”

  “Is that why the Mal’s nose is looking west? You have changed your mind about being part of this battle.”

  Grace studied Quinn a moment before answering. “I taught you well.”

  “Then you know why I am here.”

  “Aye. To talk me inta leavin’ with ya.” Grace barely smiled. “I know ya, Callaghan. I know yer not gonna risk yer crew alignin’ yerself with these idiot Spaniards, but that’s not why I’m sittin’ here in the middle of this mayhem.”

  “He’s not worth the risk, Grace.”

  Her chair landed on all fours. “Beg to differ with ya, Callaghan. That bastard Drake is the leader of Elizabeth’s fleet. If we sink him, it will demoralize the England giving the Spanish a fightin’ chance.”

  Quinn shook her head. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to, Grace? I know you. This is personal for you, but you can’t let your deep hatred for one man determine everyone’s fate on board. That’s not like you, At all.”

  “Which is why you are on one ship and I am on another. I believe cuttin’ off the head of the snake is more important as sinkin’ a dozen ships.”

  Quinn tossed back a second drink. She had seen Grace like this before, and knew there was no changing her mind. “He’s still not worth the risk.”

  “Then you’ll be leavin’?”

  Quinn sighed. “Not without you and the Mal, no. I may disagree with you, but you are my family and these men are my friends, and I’ll not have any of their deaths on my head.”

  Grace waved her off with one hand. “Don’t be foolish, Callaghan. You just said this isn’t your fight. It isn’t even your kind of fight. We both know ya brought the Emerald into it in order to protect me and your old crewmates. It was the act of a loyal and brave woman, a good friend, but not a great captain.” She held her hand up. “Yer heart was in the right place, Callaghan, but ya don’t have the head fer this kind of war. We’re pirates, Callaghan. Not soldiers. This is no place fer the likes of us.”

  “But you—”

  “Are goin’ after one ship and one ship only. We’re just using the movement of the Galleon fleet to get us into position to strike. I do not expect you to assist. As a matter of fact, I’d rather you follow your instincts, which in this case, are correct. Get your ship and your crew out of these waters before—”

  Suddenly, a loud blast reverberated through the air.

  Grace and Quinn leapt to their feet.

  “What the hell?”

  They raced to the deck in time to see eight ships in front of them on fire.

  “What are they doing?” Quinn asked, pulling out her telescope. “Why would they set their own ships on fire?”

  “They’re called hellburners,” Grace explained. “They were used at the Siege of Antwerp with great success.”

  “What’s the point? They’re perfectly good ships, aye?”

  “Oh, aye. Those are filled with pitch, tar, brimstone, and large gunpowder charges.” Grace looked down at Quinn. “Get your crew out of here, Callaghan. Those hellburners are gonna cause a lot of confusion and damage. Go now.”

  Quinn inhaled deeply, the stench of smoke in the air. “You know I don’t want to leave.”

  Grace nodded slowly as she laid her hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Aye, and though that makes my heart glad, my pirate head knows it’s best fer ya to hightail it out of here while you can.”

  “You’re certain you can handle this.” It wasn’t a question.

  “If that bastard Drake is here, I’ll do more than handle it. Now get the hell outta here so I can start pirating and sinking ships!”

  Quinn inhaled slowly and then nodded. “See you back in Ireland.”

  “That ya will.”

  As Quinn started toward the side of the ship, she saw many galleons beginning to scatter, sailing this way and that as if in total confusion. Whatever was transpiring far ahead of them was enough to tell Quinn that her instincts were right. It was time to retreat.

  “They cut anchor,” Grace yelled above the booming sound of a hellburner as it barely missed a Galleon trying to escape. “Do not hesitate, Callaghan. Live to fight another day. Always live to fight another day.”

  And those were the exact words Quinn would say to her crew before weaving and winding their way out of a battlefield they had no business being in.

  Quinn stood on the aft portion of the deck and watched as the Spanish galleons slipped into the night like thieves who had lost their nerve.

  “Tavish told me to come get you so you can get some rest,” came a small voice next to Quinn.

  Quinn glanced down at a seven-year-old girl dressed in pirate attire with her auburn hair tied back in a short ponytail. Her keen eyes were studying Quinn, as they had since she was a baby, as if trying to gauge just what Quinn was thinking or feeling. “Gallagher, what are you doing up this late?”

  The little girl, who came to Quinn’s waist, slipped her tiny hand inside Quinn’s. “Those ships on fire. They light up the sky. I wanted to see it.”

  A slow smile crept on Quinn’s face as she knelt in front of the little girl. She looked so much like her mother and yet, in an odd way, looked a little like Quinn as well. “You are as stubborn as your mother.”

  Gallagher shrugged. “And as smart. She would have wanted to see the burnin’ ships too.”

  This made Quinn chuckle. “That’s very true, Beag Gadai.” The crew had given Gallagher th
e Gaelic nickname Little Sneak and called her Beag, pronounced Bog, for short. “I watched you working with the bowmen this morning. You’re much better than I was at your age.”

  “Fitz likes to yell at me.”

  Quinn rose. The air was dark from smoke and she was grateful they were far away from the main action. “Do you know why?”

  She nodded, never taking her eyes from Quinn’s face. “Because he wants me to be able to protect myself.”

  “You’re better with your throwing knives, aye??”

  Gallagher shook her head. “Tavish thinks I’m a better archer. He and Fitz were arguin’ about it.”

  “And what do you do when they argue?”

  “Sometimes I laugh.”

  This made Quinn smile. “You laugh?”

  Gallagher nodded. “Yes, because Tavish starts speakin’ Scottish, and it makes me laugh.”

  “I see. Did they explain what’s happening out there?” Quinn waved her hand in the direction of the burning ships.

  She nodded. “Tavish said the stupid Spaniards and their stupid galleons don’t ken how to fight a stupid battle.”

  Quinn suppressed a grin at her use of ken.

  “He uses ken a lot.”

  Quinn rose. “That he does. And you need to speak properly. It’s burning, arguing, and speaking. The ing sound needs to be spoken. Understand?”

  “Tavish doesn’t ever say it.”

  “You are not Scottish. You are not uneducated. You are not some ignorant deckhand. Do you understand?”

  Gallagher nodded. “Yes, sir. Sometimes it’s hard.”

  “I know, but you need to remember where you come from, and it’s not Scotland.”

  “He’s your best friend, huh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I have many friends.”

  “But he’s the best, aye?”

  Quinn turned and watched one of the hellburners split in half and begin sinking. “Tavish is pretty much the best of everything, so yes. He is.”

  “Can he really knock a man out with one punch?”