La Gloria Del Mar

Mollie McGraw let herself into the captain's quarters without knocking as was the nature of her relationship with Captain James Bartholemew. He glanced up from where he stood behind his table as she entered and then looked back at the ledger open in front of him without so much as a nod in acknowledgement. In his right hand he held a sextant which he was using to plot the map to the side of him, the index finger of his left hand running down the ledger. 

“Lock the door.” He grunted at her as she entered. She did as she was bid and crossed to lower herself patiently into the chair opposite him. This was a well rehearsed dance. He barely acknowledged her movements, his lips moving slowly as he spoke to himself and continued his work. Mollie was used to this from the man. She sat quietly and waited for him to finish, watching him as he worked. Honestly she didn’t mind just watching him sometimes, hardly able to believe she was invited into his inner circle as often as she was. He was the closest thing she would ever come to royalty and she did love him.

Once a handsome man, the years as the Caribbean’s most feared buccaneer had started to take their toll on the captain. His once fair, freckled skin was now sun-kissed and leathered, the creases around his eyes and on his brow deepened and sand-blasted. The long, rust coloured hair that was almost always tied back in a stock was now thinning and greying around the roots as he entered his fourth decade on God’s green earth. His sapphire eyes, as blue as the sea he loved so dearly, were tired and sinking in his rugged, scarred face. As always he neglected the pompous frock coats and large hats worn by so many rival pirate captains, feeling it too grand for a humble sailor, as he maintained he was. Instead he chose to wear a dusty spice-coloured coat that was covered in holes from every stabbing and shot he had taken in his time, each making him stronger. The brocade was unravelling at the seams and Mollie had offered to repair it countless times, but Captain Bartholemew did not need people to fear his image. His name was enough. Despite his age, his impressive strength persisted, having been at sea almost his entire life. The only sign of his age was the hunch beginning to form about his shoulders from the days he spent pouring over ledgers and charts in search of his legacy. However, standing at just over six foot, he remained a terrifying tour-de-force. Even now, in the glowing light from the dying candles on the table, Mollie found herself as awed by him as she had been five years ago when he carried her away from her old life and the person she was. 

Bartholemew glanced up at her watching him. Her interest was nothing new to him, it was often how she chose to spend an evening. His lips stopped moving silently and he frowned at her slightly. 

“You’re covered in blood.” He remarked, as though this wasn’t an occurrence he was used to seeing from the woman. There was a long-lost hint of forgotten accent in his voice.

“I am the surgeon.” Mollie reminded him as she pulled at the sleeve of her shirt. She casually rested the heels of her boots on the edge of the table and laced her fingers over her stomach, perfectly at ease in the captain’s presence.  

“And the crew are at ease?” Bartholomew asked. Mollie’s word was the only word he trusted. 

“I believe so.” Mollie replied diplomatically. The crusted blood on her sleeves was beginning to annoy her now that he had pointed it out.

Bartholemew pursed his lips in the way he always did when he was displeased, the moustache on his upper lip quivering ever so slightly. The one thing Bartholemew feared was the notion of being usurped. Mollie frowned at Bartholemew and sat forwards, gently laying a hand atop his. His skin was coarse and rough beneath her soft, bloodstained hands. “You must push that thought from your mind.” She spoke soothingly, as though to an infant, a tone she often used with the volatile man in front of her. “Your men love you. They would not choose to follow anyone else. They would sooner die.” He met her eyes and she stared him down. When he did not show signs of exploding, she changed the subject. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Mollie asked cautiously, knowing Bartholemew scarcely shared any plans that were not ‘need to know’ with anyone. He did not answer at first, seemingly lost in his notes. 

“James.” She said quietly, pulling him back from them. He was breathing heavily with frustration at his own mind. She gently moved his head to look at her, her eyes searching his face imploringly. His eyes found hers and he breathed out heavily. “What is it you’ve been searching for?”  She waited until he was ready to speak. 

“I’m losing my touch.” He said quietly, as though admitting it out loud was enough to cause it to become truth. “The men grow tired of me. I have not brought them a successful haul in months.” His voice was laced with remorse and anger.

Mollie frowned at him. “What are you talking about?” She said incredulously, “Just today we filled the stores with wine and goods to sell once we make port. You know Mr Penn will buy them for more than they are worth.” 

“Is that to be my legacy? Rerouting merchant supplies to the highest bidder?” Bartholemew cursed.

“You are keeping them from England. Is that not your goal?” Mollie reminded him truthfully. For as long as she had known him he had been at war with their homeland.

“My goal is to be remembered long after I am dead.” Bartholemew’s voice was heavy with defeat.

“That is a long way off.” Mollie spoke determinedly.  

“Mollie. I cannot afford to be complacent. The ever ticking canon of life is close on my tail and I have nought to show for the life that I have built, save a name that will die as soon as the man who bears it.” Bartholemew grumbled.

“Your name will live on long after you are dead, my love.” Mollie shook her head at him. He often felt this bitter, especially at the moment. “And nought to show? James, you have this ship, this crew. Do you honestly think one man out there would not speak well of you once you do inevitably go to the reaper?” 

“The men do not love me.” There was that telltale curl in his lip again. He relinquished her fingers as though they had burned him.  

“Don’t be absurd.” Mollie shook her head. She had long since learnt not to take offence when he did not want to touch her. He blew hot and cold quicker than the winds of the Caribbean sea.

“The men fear me.” He met her eye, a glare in his. His words were truth but she would not agree. She couldn’t. She knew the last thing Bartholemew needed was indulging when he spoke folly like this. 

“Is that not one and the same?” Mollie was growing desperate now to break the captain out of the funk he was winding himself into. “Was it not you yourself who once told me to be loved is to be feared?” 

“It’s not enough.” He spoke flatly. 

“What exactly is it that you want for your legacy, if that is not enough?” She demanded, her face close to his as he slumped in his chair. “What more could a man with a name such as yours not but to go down in history as the most loved and most feared pirate captain whoever sailed. Forget Blackbeard, forget Barbarossa. Captain Bartholemew will be who mothers warn their children of on dark nights. What more could you need?” 

He looked into her soft eyes and blinked slowly. 

“Treasure.” He said quietly. 

“Treasure?” Mollie repeated skeptically. Bartholemew loved his gold as much as any man aboard The Widow, but never once had he referred to his earnings as ‘treasure’. The notion confused her, catching her off guard. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean all the treasure a man can gain. I want it all. I want to go down in history as the man who stole all of the wealth of England and Spain combined. Who made it his goal to spurn the motherland that gave him birth, the fatherland that took everything from him. I want to make them pay in blood as they try to win it back. I want to sit on it until they have nothing left to give, and I will laugh as they are forced to give up. I want to be known as the pirate who took it all. I want them to spend the rest of their lives trying to win it back.” His eyes were glistening with a hunger Mollie had never seen. The crazed look on his weatherworn face scared her. She held tighter to his hands as though she wanted to feel he was truly still in the room. He seemed so far away, a different person. 

“James,” She whispered. “It is not possible to do what you say.” She knew her words would not fall graciously upon his ears, but she needed him to hear them all the same. She braced herself for him to fly at her, to scream and curse. He simply smiled. 

“Yes it is.” He said calmly, certain in his conception, a maddened glint in his eye. Bartholemew poured himself a tankard of rum and drank thirstily from it as he settled himself down. She swallowed hard, waiting. Bartholomew pushed the ledger towards her. Sticking out of a random array of pages was a diagram etched on leather. It looked old. His eyes twinkled as he pulled it from the ledger and reverently unfurled it on the tabletop. It was a diagram of a ship, a gift from his friend. Though he would not tell Mollie that. Mollie frowned at it. The ship was a galleon, and the name was scrawled in delicate Spanish script along the bottom.

“La Gloria del Mar?” Mollie asked.  

Bartholemew nodded.“The glory of the sea.” He translated, running a ringed hand carefully over the aged drawing. His voice was a breath of admiration. The galleon was enormous by ship standards. Gold ink had been used to highlight the masts under the gossamer sails and the panels on the side of the ship were similarly defined. 

“A treasure galleon?” Mollie asked, her own voice breathless.

“Not just any, my little paradise bird,” The gold ink reflected in Bartholemew’s hungry eyes and lit them afire, “The mother of all treasure galleons.” 

“You plan to capture this ship?” Mollie’s tone was incredulous as his plan clicked in her brain. He had said he wanted to go down in history. The captain had captured many a prize vessel in his tenure but never had he been stupid enough to go for one this impressive, this provocative. 

“No,” Bartholemew said to a reassured Mollie, “The ship was lost two hundred years ago.” 

“Then,” Mollie frowned at him as he continued to stare at the etching, “What?”

“I plan to locate it.” Bartholemew replied. 

“Locate it?” Mollie asked. “How can a ship that has been lost these two hundred years be so easily found? Surely men before you have tried, my love?” She was treading carefully, wary of the fuel in his eyes. He simply smirked at her patronisingly.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Bartholemew asked, settling back in his chair and meeting her eye for the first time since the etching had been revealed. Mollie nodded slowly, her own eyes flicking between the etching and Bartholemew’s ravenous face.

“The year was 1532. The Spanish conquistadors attacked the west coast of the South of the Americas, what was then known simply as the untamed Inca empire. The Inca were barbarians who malformed their young and murdered their own to appease their pagan gods. The Spanish had been sailing to their lands for quite some time. Cristóbal Diablo, a famed Spanish warlord, had 160 trusted men whom he led on the conquest of the land. The primitive Inca, armed only with their spears, were not prepared for the arrival of highly-trained, heavily-armoured Spaniards and so they fell like cattle, one after the other. In their conquest the Spanish took hostage the king of the Inca people, Tullpa. Diablo, a well-informed man who wanted little more than to be remembered for the untold wealth he was yet to possess, knew Tullpa set his palace atop a phenomenal mountain of gold. The bricks themselves shone in the light of the sun, seen from miles around. Tullpa pleaded with Diablo, telling him that if he would only spare his life he would provide him with wealth beyond his wildest dreams. Diablo agreed and over the next few months the gold was slowly filtered onto his treasure galleon,” Bartholemew paused and gestured at the etching. 

“La Gloria del Mar.” Mollie said breathlessly, enraptured by Bartholemew’s story.  

Bartholemew nodded before continuing, “However, Diablo grew suspicious. The gold and jewels were taking much longer than he would have thought to be presented to him. He felt Tullpa was using the time to amass an army that could overrule the conquesting Spanish, take back the wealth that he had promised to Diablo and kill them all in the process. He ordered the Gloria del Mar to set sail for a distant island and return only when Diablo sent a trusted scout, his own son Garcia, to retrieve it once he was sure the wealth could not be reclaimed. The ship was captained by his most trusted and bloodthirsty officer, Capitán Manuela Asasino, el segadora del sur. The reaper of the South.” Mollie swallowed hard. Bartholemew continued, “Only Asasino and Garcia Diablo knew the location the ship would make dock. Not even Cristóbal Diablo knew, lest the Inca get it from him. Diablo once again captured Tullpa and, acting as a judge, accused him of the false-charges of murder and witchcraft. He was sentenced to burn at the stake. Tullpa, who was far more learned than his conquistadors were led to believe, had been observing the Spanish, learning their Christian ways. He knew that Christians could not be burnt at the stake under Spanish law, and so he asked to be converted to Christianity. Diablo, the cunning man that he was, saw through Tullpa’s ploy and granted his wish. Tullpa was christened and spared the stake. He was strangled in his sleep instead.” 

“So Diablo was free to reclaim his treasure?” Mollie asked.

“The story doesn’t end there, my little paradise bird.” His eyes were shining, “Tullpa, knowing the ways as he did of the treacherous Spanish, had ordered for his best general, Qari, to set sail himself and reclaim the gold and hide it away. For thirteen days and nights, it is said, Qari and his soldiers tailed the Gloria del Mar to a deserted island. Recognising the heading, for he knew these waters well, Qari slipped ahead of the treasure galleon, which was heavy and cumbersome under the weight of the wealth, and made port on the island. He set his men to lie in wait. Wait they did, and they murdered every last Spaniard who made dock on the island before he even had a chance to draw a weapon. However, sensing all was lost, Capitán Asasino fired a cannon at the bottom of the ship, breaking the keel and sending La Gloria del Mar and all of its loaded wealth to be lost to the ocean. Capitán Asasino went down with the ship, committing himself to a watery grave for the glory of his country. What is more, when Diablo’s son arrived to send the signal that the ship could return he found not only the treasure gone and his own people slain but he found that Inca were inexplicably dead too, right down to their fearless leader Qari. He could not explain what had happened. Some say disease, some say the Spanish took out as many Inca as the Inca took of the Spanish. Garcia Diablo could not say for sure, only that no man was found alive. Garcia never made it back to his father, his ship was dashed on the rocks. Cristóbal Diablo died shortly after, his cause, family and treasure long lost.”

Bartholemew sat back in his chair, his story finished. He was watching Mollie carefully for her reaction. She was staring at the etching of the treasure galleon, taking it all in. Tentatively, she ran a hand over the markings in the leather. 

“You mean to find the treasure?” She asked. 

“Many men have tried. Those who have never lived to tell the tale.” Bartholemew said. 

“So the location remains a mystery?” Mollie looked at Bartholemew skeptically. “If nobody has found it and lived to tell the tale…” She faltered, not wanting to anger him, “Why do you think you have a chance?” 

She waited for Bartholemew to grow angry at her but instead he simply smirked.

“There have been whispers.” Bartholemew said mysteriously, “Whispers of an island strewn with hundreds of bones eleven days from the west coast of the South of the Americas. Isla Medula.”  

“Eleven days? You said they sailed for thirteen?” 

“That would be what most people have thought.” Bartholemew’s eyes sparkled knowingly.

“The ship was slow and cumbersome, weighed down with wealth.” 

Mollie could hardly believe her ears. When Bartholemew set his mind on a goal he more often than not achieved it, come Hell or high water. 

“Isla Medula.” Mollie said slowly. “Is that where we are bound?” 

“It is.” Bartholemew said.