The streets of Port Royal were a lesson in contrasts. Near the docks, the air was thick with the smell of rotting fish, spilled rum, and desperation. However, the further they walked up the hill towards the city center, the streets transitioned from packed mud to neat cobblestone. The dilapidated wooden shacks were replaced by two-story stone buildings with well-kept gardens. This was where the sugar barons and successful privateer captains lived, far from the noise of the common folk.
"I'm not so sure about this, Captain," Arthur said, his voice laced with nervousness. His best officer's uniform looked worn and shabby in the splendor of this district. "They're going to laugh at us."
"Let them laugh," Thomas retorted, his eyes calmly surveying his surroundings. "Rich men always laugh the loudest right before their wallets are stolen."
They arrived at the gates of The Governor's Mansion, an imposing building surrounded by a high white wall. Two guards in red coats with muskets on their shoulders blocked their path.
"Halt. What is your business?" one of the guards asked, looking at them with disdain.
"We wish to see Governor Finch," Thomas replied in a casual tone.
The two guards looked at each other, then burst into laughter. "The Governor doesn't have time for a pair of scruffy sailors. Now, get out of here before we use you for bayonet practice."
Just as Arthur was about to retort angrily, a sharp voice cut through from inside the mansion's garden. "Enough, James. Their courage is at least worth listening to."
A young girl stepped out of the garden gate. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tied back in a practical manner. She wore riding breeches and a loose-fitting shirt, not a noble's gown, and in her hand was a gleaming rapier. Sweat glistened on her temples, and her green eyes studied them keenly, full of a bored intelligence. This had to be Eleanor Finch, the Governor's daughter.
Thomas felt his heart beat a little faster, out of admiration.
Eleanor's gaze settled on Thomas. "I hear you're looking for my father. Do you have a name?"
"Thomas Vance, Captain of The Venture, miss," Thomas answered, giving a slight, charming smile. "A ship that currently has more holes than planks, but a crew with a spirit stronger than steel."
"I saw your ship coming into the harbor," Eleanor said, her eyes assessing. "You look like you just danced with the devil."
"That devil's name was Volkov," Thomas replied. "And we led the dance."
A flash of interest sparked in Eleanor's eyes. Her father was always complaining about the lack of captains with grit in Port Royal. "Follow me," she said curtly, turning and walking towards the main door of the mansion. "This will at least be more entertaining than stabbing a straw dummy."
Governor Sir Alistair Finch's study was filled with expensive mahogany furniture and tall bookshelves. The Governor himself was a middle-aged man with a weary but sharp look, the reflection of a pragmatic man surrounded by opportunists. He looked at Thomas with skepticism.
"Miss Finch tells me you have important business, Captain Vance," the Governor said, the emphasis on the word 'Captain' sounding like a taunt. "What business could a boy with a wreck of a ship have?"
"The same business as you, Governor," Thomas countered, his tone confident. "The Spanish. I hear their ships are getting bolder. You need more privateers to disrupt their trade routes. I offer you my sword and my ship."
Governor Finch chuckled. "A boy's sword and a ship that nearly sank? I have veteran captains lining up for a Letter of Marque."
"And those veteran captains will attack in a way the Spanish expect," Thomas cut in. "They look for the old wolves they know. They would never suspect an attack from a ship they consider easy prey. The Venture may look weak, but we just survived a battle with Volkov's The Iron Price. We crippled some of his cannons and forced him to retreat. Ask any crew in the harbor. The news has spread."
Governor Finch fell silent. He glanced at his daughter, who gave a subtle nod. The information about the fight was indeed true. This boy, somehow, had managed to survive one of the most disciplined pirates on the sea.
"Your bravery is admirable, but foolish," the Governor said, his tone softening slightly. "I can't grant a formal letter of marque to an unproven captain. It would be a scandal."
"Then give us a test," Thomas challenged. "A target. One ship. If we succeed, give us the contract. If we fail, you lose nothing, and the sea will have one less foolish pirate to worry about."
A hush fell over the room. Governor Finch stared at a large map of the Caribbean on the wall, his finger tracing a trade route. He was a gambler, and the entire English Kingdom in the New World was built on risky bets.
"Very well, Captain Vance," he finally said. "You will get your test."
He pointed to a spot south of Cuba. "There's a Spanish supply ship, a fast Sloop named Santa Catalina. She carries the payroll for the garrison in Santiago. Her route is considered safe, so her escort is light. I don't need the ship, I need the payroll chest."
The Governor walked to his desk and wrote a brief note, then affixed his stamp. "This is a letter for Harbour Master Phips and the shipyard. It's enough to get you emergency repairs and basic supplies. Consider it an advance."
Thomas took the letter. This was it. His opportunity.
"One more thing, Vance," Governor Finch said, his eyes drilling into him. "Do not fail."
"Failure is not in my dictionary, Governor," Thomas replied with a wry smile. "Only victory and valuable lessons."
As he turned to leave, his eyes met Eleanor's. The girl gave him a thin, challenging smile.
Thomas and Arthur walked out of the mansion.
"Arthur," Thomas said as he descended the front steps. "Gather the crew. We have a ship to fix and Spaniards to rob."
Finch & Sons Shipyard. The air here smelled of hot tar, sawdust, and hard work. Dozens of workers, bare-chested under the Jamaican sun, hammered, sawed, and shouted orders. This was where wounded ships were tended to or captured ships were "laundered" into legitimate new ownership.
A burly foreman with arms the size of logs approached Thomas and Arthur, wiping sweat from his bald forehead. "A letter from the Governor, eh?" he said after reading the note Thomas gave him. "I can patch the holes and give you some decent used sails. But don't expect a miracle. The Governor's advance is only enough to keep your ship from sinking, not to make it win a war."
"I don't need a miracle. I need an edge," Thomas quickly replied. "Forget new paint or useless trimmings. Focus all resources on three things: reinforce the starboard hull to be as tough as a Spaniard's skull, make sure our main rudder is solid, and put on the best sails you have. I need speed and resilience more than beauty."
The foreman stared at Thomas, surprised by the young man's technical understanding. He gave a grim smile. "You know what you want, lad. Alright. Three days. Your ship will be ready to hunt."
While The Venture's healthy crew helped out at the shipyard, Thomas had other business. Their Master Gunner was killed in the battle against Volkov, and a cannon without an expert is a useless hunk of metal.
"There's a man," Arthur said as they walked back to town. "His name is Riggs. 'Master Gunner' Riggs. The best gunner in the Royal Navy, before he was jailed in Fort Charles for beating an incompetent lieutenant."
An idea formed in Thomas's mind. High risk, high reward.
Commodore James Harrington, commander of the Royal Navy squadron in Port Royal, was an honest and rigid man. He hated privateers and pirates with the same intensity, seeing them as a stain on English maritime supremacy. He received Thomas in his neat office inside the fort with a cold stare.
"Captain Vance. I've heard of you," Harrington said without ceremony. "You created a mess, but you survived. What do you want here?"
"I have a mission from the Governor, Commodore. A mission that requires the best gunner," Thomas replied. "And you have him, rotting in one of your cells. 'Master Gunner' Riggs."
Harrington snorted. "Riggs is an unruly troublemaker."
"And I am an unusual captain," Thomas countered with a charming smile. "He's an expert with his weapons; I'm an expert at leading difficult men. Lend him to me. If I succeed, the Crown benefits. If I sink, you'll be rid of a troublesome young captain and an old rebel. You lose nothing."
Thomas's logic gave Harrington pause. After a tense moment, he nodded. "Take him. But if he causes trouble in my city, I'll hang both of you from the same mast."
'Master Gunner' Riggs was a man tougher than his reputation. His body was burly despite his age, one of his legs replaced by a sturdy wooden one, and his eyes looked at the world with the cynicism of a man who had seen the worst of humanity.
"So you're my new captain? You haven't even grown a beard yet," Riggs grumbled when they met at the prison gate.
"A beard doesn't win battles, Riggs. Accurate cannons do," Thomas said. "I don't care about your past or your attitude. I just need your expertise. On my ship, skill is valued above all else. You will be Master of Ordnance, with full control over all cannons and gunpowder. In return, I want loyalty and accurate shots." He held out his hand.
Riggs looked at the hand, then at Thomas's confident eyes. He was tired of rotting in a cell. He snorted, then shook Thomas's hand firmly. "Alright, Captain. You give me the cannons, and I'll give you fire to throw."
Once again, Thomas felt the warm flow of the magical contract, locking the gunner into his ranks.
Three days later, The Venture was reborn. The ship might be scarred and patched, but it felt strong. New sails billowed bravely on the main mast, and on deck, Master Gunner Riggs shouted at the gun crew, training them with a brutal discipline that made them move twice as fast.
Thomas hadn't forgotten his crew. With the remaining advance from the Governor, he bought several barrels of quality rum from The Bridgetown Fish Market and shared it. It was a small gesture, but in a world where a sailor's life was worthless, that action built morale more than any speech.
On the fourth day, the renewed Venture raised its anchor. The crew, their stomachs warm with rum and their hearts filled with new spirit, worked with efficiency. Port Royal, with all its sins and promises, slowly shrank behind them.
Thomas stood at the helm, feeling how his ship responded to every touch, alive and vibrant beneath his feet. Arthur approached, carrying a map.
"The latest intelligence from the Harbour Master's office says the Santa Catalina will pass through the Windward Passage in two days," he reported. "She's fast, Captain."
Thomas smiled, his eyes fixed on the vast blue ocean. "We're faster."
He turned to the helmsman. "Set a course to the southeast! Hoist all sails! The hunt has begun."
Two days later.
The Venture hid like a crocodile in a small, sheltered bay on the western coast of Hispaniola, facing the strategic Windward Passage. The crew worked in tense silence, sharpening swords, checking rigging, and under the watchful eye of Master Gunner Riggs, cleaning and preparing every cannon with precision.
Thomas stood over a map spread out on his cabin table, with Arthur and Riggs. Lantern light highlighted coastlines and notes on ocean currents. "She'll pass here at dawn," Thomas said, his finger pointing to a spot in the middle of the strait. "A Sloop is very nimble; chasing her from behind is foolish. We'll cut off her path from here. Riggs, I don't want her hull destroyed. I need her sails and mast in shreds. Can you do it?"
Riggs grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. "Captain, I can shoot a fly off a pig's back from this distance. Give me a clear shot, and I'll drop her sails like autumn leaves."
"Good," Thomas said. "Arthur, you'll lead the second boarding team. Focus on securing their crew. I'll lead the main team, straight for the captain's cabin to get the payroll chest. Quick, clean, and efficient."
As the first light of dawn began to paint the sky, the long-awaited cry came from the lookout mast. "Sail ho! South side, moving fast!"
In the distance, a sleek, graceful silhouette appeared. A Sloop, its sails full of the morning wind, moved with impressive speed. Santa Catalina.
"Weigh anchor! All sails set!" Thomas commanded, his voice calm yet full of suppressed energy.
The Venture launched out of its hiding place. The Spanish captain on the Santa Catalina was clearly surprised, but he reacted quickly. He turned the bow, trying to use the Sloop's speed advantage to escape.
The two ships danced on the waves. Santa Catalina was nimble and agile, but Thomas, with his understanding of the wind and currents, managed to predict her every move. He didn't follow; he intercepted. Slowly but surely, the larger but now efficient Venture began to close the distance.
"Within range!" Riggs yelled from his gun post.
"Hold your fire!" Thomas replied, his eyes never leaving his prey. He waited for the right moment, when the Sloop slightly listed from a gust of wind. "Now, Riggs! Give them our first kiss!"
"FIRE!"
The roar of eight cannons from The Venture's starboard side shattered the morning silence. Riggs had ordered the use of chain-shot—two cannonballs connected by a chain. The projectiles spun through the air like giant saws, tearing the Santa Catalina's main sail into strips of cloth.
The Sloop's speed immediately dropped drastically. The Spanish captain panicked, trying to maneuver, but his ship was now like an eagle with a broken wing.
"Reload! Second shot, target the rudder post!" Thomas ordered.
The cannons roared again. One shot hit its mark, destroying the upper part of Santa Catalina's rudder post, making her almost uncontrollable.
"Time to collect our payment!" Thomas shouted. "Boarding party, prepare the hooks!"
The Venture came alongside the crippled Sloop with a rough jolt. A hail of musket fire from both sides filled the air. Iron hooks were thrown and locked the two ships together.
With a wild grin on his face, Thomas was the first to jump. He landed lightly on the deck of the Santa Catalina. "Good morning, gentlemen! It's collection time!"
The close-quarters battle was swift and brutal. Thomas's crew, filled with confidence, fought with ferocity and coordination. They didn't slaughter; they subdued. The Spanish captain, a proud young man, charged at Thomas with a drawn rapier.
"You'll hang for this, pirate!"
"Perhaps," Thomas answered, easily parrying the attack. "But at least I'll hang a rich man."
With a quick flick of the wrist, Thomas twisted the Spanish captain's sword from his grasp. He kicked the man in the chest, sending him sprawling. The battle on deck was over in a matter of minutes.
Arthur and his men quickly found what they were looking for in the captain's cabin: a heavy wooden chest reinforced with iron, full of bags of Silver and Gold Coins.
The crew cheered. Their first victory as a cohesive unit.
Thomas looked at the defeated Spanish captain. "You and your crew can take the longboat. I'll leave you enough water and food to reach Cuba. Give my regards to your superior. Tell him, next time, send a more worthy opponent."
A few hours later, the treasure chest was safe in The Venture's hold, and the longboat containing the disgraced Spanish crew was just a tiny dot on the horizon.
Thomas stood at his helm, feeling a deep satisfaction. His crew looked at him with undeniable respect. Riggs gave him a thumbs-up from his gun post.
"Arthur, count our loot and prepare a bonus for every man," Thomas ordered. "Helmsman, turn the bow. We're going back to Port Royal."
He smiled, imagining Governor Finch's face when he threw this Spanish payroll chest on his desk. "We're going to collect on a Governor's promise."