Pirate's Wraith, The

The Pirate’s Wraith

by

Penelope
Marzec

(C) Copyright by Penelope Marzec, July 2013

(C
) Cover art by Jenny Dixon, July 2013

ISBN 978-1-60394-
817-3

Smashwords Edition

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

For
Aunt Grace who always encouraged me.

Chapter
One

Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey

October 8, 2011

Lesley knelt at the antique cradle beside the fireplace and picked up the small wooden horse resting on the quilt. If she told anyone the toy had given her strength and comfort they might think she had lost her mind, but she could not explain it any other way. She placed it in her handbag and then did her best to shove her anger with Jim to the back of her mind. 

When she stepped outside her condo, threatening gray clouds greeted her.
Perfect.
A day to match her mood. Last night, she had finally gotten up the nerve to tell Jim the wedding was off. He slapped her, shoved her against the wall, and left with his tires spitting up gravel.

She tossed her suitcase into the trunk of her sedan and took a long look at the house she and Jim had intended to share. Misty tears blurred her view, but she had the satisfaction of knowing the condo belonged to her. She held the deed in her name.

Doing seventy in the center lane, she cruised south on the Garden State Parkway and barely kept up with the traffic. The rain started as she passed Exit 98. It came down so heavily she could not see fifty feet ahead of her. She edged into the right lane and eased up on the accelerator but she worried about arriving at the ferry on time.

Her
cell phone rang at half past seven. She glanced at the caller ID and saw Jim’s name. She ignored the call. He wouldn’t say he was sorry. He never did.

The downpour continued and a heavy fog made the visibility far worse, but she clutched the wheel and struggled onward. Fewer cars passed her. Listening to the radio for a while, she consoled herself with the fact that all the airports had long delays due to the miserable weather. Right now, she could be sitting in the airport and getting nowhere. Instead, she made progress. Slow and steady wins the race, as in the old fable about the tortoise and the hare.

Despite the pain reliever she had taken, her headache intensified. She vowed to take a few weeks off after this conference and go to a specialist. Suffering from constant migraines had dampened her enthusiasm when it came to hawking pain relievers to doctors. She had tried every headache prescription available, but none eased her affliction.

She glanced at the dashboard clock and realized she would miss the ferry if she did not pick up speed. The next available ferry would be two hours later. She would wind up driving much of the journey in the dark, which would make her migraine worse.   

Grumbling, she pressed her foot down on the accelerator.
Hell.
What was she worried about? On a day like this the troopers had the good sense to stay indoors.

Before she reached New Gretna, her
cell phone rang warning her that Jim wanted to reach her again.
She thought about answering his call and trying to patch things up, but she had done the same thing over and over. It never lasted long. She never knew when he would explode again in anger.

She also thought about being barren for the rest of her life. Jim did not want children, but she had a driving compulsion to fill that empty antique cradle and hand the baby the toy horse. The ache in her heart widened into a chasm. Her sister had two children and every time Lesley looked at them, she wanted to steal them.

Instead of reaching for the phone, she reached inside her purse for the wooden toy and placed it on her lap. Jim did not leave a message.

Nearing the bridge over the Mullica River, the weather worsened. Bright flashes of lightning burst through the heavy atmosphere and the shaft of pain in her head became unbearable. The sound of thunder rocked the ground. The electrical storm exploded right above her.

On the bridge, her sedan would be higher than the surrounding wetlands and the river, but she knew a huge metal support for high-tension wires stood not far from the bridge. If the lightning had to hit anything, it ought to hit the taller support.

The rain lashed at the car in sheets as she drove over the bridge. She wanted to get to the other side as quickly as possible. The excruciating ache in her head made her nauseous. She could see only a few feet in front of her but she kept her gaze fixed on the railing on the right side so she would
not wander into the wrong lane.

When the brightest bolt yet lit up the area, she jumped in shock. Blinded by the flash, she accidentally jammed her foot on the accelerator. A deafening boom of thunder burst with such force the bridge beneath her shuddered. Her vision cleared in time to see the metal tower crash onto the bridge directly ahead of her, knocking a huge chunk of the railing off the bridge. In a panic, she hit the brake, but instead of stopping, the car went into a vicious spin. Her heart turned to ice.

She swung the wheel attempting to gain some control but it did no good. Another bolt of lightning slammed into the car as it continued to whirl out of control, spiraling like a top as a strange high-pitched whine deafened her.

Would she land on the spongy marsh or in the river? The earsplitting noise intensified. Turning off the car’s engine, she covered her ears to wait for the impact and the horrible sound of steel twisting and crumpling all around her.

Instead, another explosive bolt of lightning crashed around her and Lesley blacked out.

* * * *

The Forks, New Jersey

October 8, 1711

Glowering beneath the brim of his wide hat, Harlan stood on the poop deck of the
Lyrical
in the cold, driving rain. A solid gray atmosphere surrounded the boat and he could barely see the end of the bowsprint. The heavy damp muffled the raucous sounds of the men below. They played dice and drank down the rum captured from a Spanish sloop in an easy battle with few losses. However, one of the
Lyrical’s
casualties had been a cabin boy who had fallen overboard during the fighting.

The boy had run away from home a year ago looking for adventure and riches. He could read and cipher and had dogged the heels of the sailing master whenever he could. He claimed to be fifteen years of age, but most judged him to be closer to twelve, not much older than Harlan’s own son would have been by now.

His heart twisted. The eager cabin boy’s laughter would never be heard on the
Lyrical
again. One misstep and he had vanished forever beneath the waves.

The sounds of his drunken crew below decks set his blood boiling. They would continue to quaff down the rum until not a drop remained or they had collapsed. If they had been sober, the
Lyrical
could have run after a Spanish man-of-war, but Harlan refused to risk it.

A cold stone settled inside him as the memories of his cursed life passed through his mind. Once, providence blessed him but the fortune he should have inherited from his father had been gambled away by his brother along with the family homestead. Destitute, Harlan married a willing woman, but then lost his son and wife as well.

As a privateer, he stood a better chance in restoring his former wealth. However, his crew clamored to go on the account and he figured little difference lay between privateer and pirate. A vote allowed him to continue as captain, though some of the crew did not agree with his stipulation of counting the French and the Spanish as enemies. He refused to rob his own countrymen and he retained his letters of marque as a precaution.

He had known from the beginning that those who had asked for a berth on the
Lyrical
had little to recommend them. His first mate had overheard three of the sailors talk of participating in a mutiny a few years ago, marooning their captain on an uninhabited island. The muscles in the back of Harlan’s neck bunched up.

Once, he had been marooned with his captain. A familiar pain stabbed his heart. He had finally returned home from that journey to discover his son dead and his wife .... 

He fought to shove that memory to the back of his mind and stared out at the wide expanse of the river. He had anchored there to ride out the storm while his crew lingered in their cups. The settlement located a few miles upriver would not welcome his rowdy crew. Though water seeped through the hull and the boat needed careening, the weather would be far more amenable for that job in New Providence at this time of the year.

Glancing again toward the bowsprit, he spied Peter Gilroy, the ship’s physician. His heart softened as he watched the wizened old man fasten a thin piece of twine from one cathead to the other. The twine dangled with metal spoons spaced at regular intervals along its length. Despite the downpour, Dr. Gilroy fastened another piece of twine—also laden with spoons—from the bowsprint and connected it to the twine running between the catheads. At the junction, he affixed a large metal eyebolt. The end of the bolt pointed down into a large bottle, which had formerly held Madeira.

The doctor laughed and rubbed his hands together as he finished his task. “D’ye see what I have done?” he called across the deck to Harlan. “I will harness the power of the lightning, capture it, and use it for healing. ‘Tis science.”

“’Tis witchcraft,” Harlan muttered beneath his breath. The doctor’s experiments unnerved him. Gilly’s endeavors reminded him of the spells and charms his wife, Elsbeth, had learned from the Widow Vetter and there were those who had called the widow a witch.

A thin sliver of anxiety curled up Harlan’s spine. Brought up a proper Christian, he believed the use of the black arts an evil designed to send a soul to burn in Hell for all eternity. He assumed his cursed wife now lingered in unceasing torment, but he prayed his young son had gone on to a heavenly reward.

As for his own blackened soul, he had no hope for he had turned pirate. A cold hand squeezed at his heart. Perhaps he would join Elsbeth in everlasting suffering.

The doctor headed toward him. “D’ye see any lightning, Cap’n?”

Harlan shook his head. He thought the good doctor had more than
a touch of madness in his baldpate, but he did possess an unusual gift for healing. His decoctions and tinctures tended to be far more effective than those of most physicians.

Once, his ministrations had saved Harlan’s life.

Before the doctor had gone ten paces, a thin finger of lightning came down and touched the spoon-laden twine, creating a radiance so blinding Harlan shielded his eyes and held onto the rail with his other hand. A sharp crack of thunder shook the ship.

The men below hushed for a moment. Would they rush up to the deck thinking the sound had been a cannon going off?

No. Someone let out crude oath, someone else guffawed and the usual ruckus ensued. Harlan blinked to clear his vision and saw Gilly lying still on the deck.

Leaping from the poop deck, he ran to the small, black heap, bent and touched the pulse still throbbing in the old man’s neck. Drawing in a sigh of relief, he said, “The Devil has not got you yet.”

“I do not deal with the Devil, Cap’n.” Gilroy’s leathery face broke out in a smile as he slowly opened his eyes. “I am experimenting with the natural world and its power.”

“The Devil has power over this world.”

“Pshaw.” With Harlan’s helping hand, the doctor got to his feet. He pulled a cork from his pocket. “I must cork the bottle and save the power before it escapes.”

As they walked together to where the junction of the twine had been, they realized the twine and all the spoons had vanished. The bottle had rolled away and shattered against the carriage truck of a cannon. However, directly below the spot where the eyebolt had dangled lay a naked woman.

Harlan thought his mind must be playing tricks on him. Otherwise, he must be mad. He rubbed his eyes but the body on the deck did not vanish. The October wind blew sharply colder.