Pieces of Eight

A Story of

Sex & Love, Trust & Betrayal

a novel by

Michael Reed McLaughlin

(Based on the Michael Reed McLaughlin film

Of Love & Betrayal

starring Kevin Rahm, Amy Caudill, and Tamara Jefferies)

Other novels by Michael Reed McLaughlin

The Hero Sagas trilogy

Rüneglaive: Sword of Heroes

Rüneguard: Shield of Heroes

Rünehelm: Helmet of Heroes

The Hero Within trilogy

Lĕgĕrdēmān: Son of Heroes

Visit: mrmproductions.com/Hero_Sagas

This novel is based on the MRM Productions film Of Love & Betrayal. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real persons or events is entirely coincidental.

2010 Lulu paperback edition.

© 1996, 2010 Michael Reed McLaughlin and MRM Productions

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States of America by Lulu Press, Raleigh, N.C.

Ebook ISBN 978-0-557-74154-0

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

McLaughlin, Michael Reed
Pieces of Eight: A Story of Sex & Love, Trust & Betrayal /
Michael Reed McLaughlin.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-557-74186-1

Printed in the United States of America

www.MRMProductions.com/films

www.Lulu.com

987654321

Book and cover design by Michael Reed McLaughlin

Prologue—1781

Deuces and One-eyed Jacks Are Wild

Ye Olde Rusty Anchor Tavern was not the sort of place that just anyone would venture into. In 1781 a gentleman might lose his position just for entering such a den of iniquity; a lady (not yet of ill-repute) would certainly, and eternally, lose her standing as a lady were she to set even one foot in such an establishment. But of course, the sort of villains and scum who did enter, and indeed often frequent, an institution such as the Rusty Anchor, were in no way concerned about their public or political reputations; in fact the cutthroats and cutpurses who came to the dimly-lit inn and tavern on the swampy Louisiana coast, sought out just such a seedy locale to enjoy a stout grog or a stiff pipe, precisely because of its out-of-the-way reputation and location. Brawls were a nightly occurrence at the salty pub, and a belly-stabbing or an eye-gouging was considered as much a part of the flavor that the rough patrons expected to enjoy with their sup and sauce, as were the sea chanties and tales that were ever boisterous, colorful, and abundant.

The smoke of pipes, lanterns, and candles filled the dining hall and gave it the same atmosphere and danger as a foggy night on the shoals. In the center of the tavern was a table with three golden candelabras burning upon it, (obviously recently acquired, and not by the usual means of barter or purchase). Around the table sat several rough-looking men with tan hides and sun-bleached matted hair. They held cards in their hands and the kitty in the midst of the rough-hewn table included heavy rings with inset jewels, a wide silver bracelet, a necklace of pearls, and silver and gold pieces with English, Portuguese, and Spanish monarchs stamped upon them. (No one used the risky currency of the Colonies—it was considered taboo.)

One of the sailors at the table, a rather round Spaniard, pulled the golden ring from his ear and slapped it on the table. “There! A full ounce of gold, if ever I slit a man’s throat.”

Another player, a man with an old red sash tied over his left eye as a patch, picked the earring up in one hand and measured its weight against a golden doubloon. He scowled and tossed them both back into the pot.

Most of the tavern’s patrons were gathered around the game, and there was an odd silence as they watched the stakes rise higher and higher. A young deckhand who stood near the hefty barkeep leaned in to him. “A serious lot, these fellows, and no doubt about it. I wish I ’uz in the game with ’em.”

“I reckon you’re a little big for your own britches, Young Andrew. I’ll wager there’s more loot on that table, me lad, than you’ll come by in your entire sordid career.”

“By your liver, I’ll be captain of me own vessel by me twenty-first birthday.”

“You’ll not live to see your eighteenth, I’ll wager.”

“Fie on you, Smitty!” Young Andrew pulled a wicked-looking wavy dagger from his waistcoat. “I’ll have your tongue out for a’hex’n me bright future!”

“You’ll no sooner cut me tongue out than go a’home the captain of a tall ship! Now here, have another ale and let the real pirates do the brag’n.” He handed a full mug to the youth who put his dagger away and took the pint begrudgingly.

A handful of doubloons were slapped noisily on the betting table by the one-eyed pirate, and all the players but one tossed their cards in.

“Now it’s down to just Jacques Un-Oeil and Robert the Fox,” remarked the young deckhand.

“They’re not play’n for bobbles and silver bits no more, I’ll give ya that for noth’n,” replied the robust barkeep.

Andrew nodded his agreement. “What happened to the old Fox’s hand, Smitty?” He motioned towards the sole ruffian who had stayed in the game with the one-eyed pirate, a thin, wiry Irishman with only one good hand. In place of the other hand, he had a sort of curved spike that had been fashioned out of gold and was attached to his forearm with a wide leather band and two buckled straps.

“Some say a shark, others a duel with a Southern plantation owner…”

“I’d put me money on him a’hav’n lost it in the rigging,” disputed Andrew.

“Not a bad wager, but I have it by a goodly source as what says he done it to his own self.”

“Blimey!”

“My source says his scurvy mates done mutinied one day off the Southern Cays in the sweltering heat of a bloody long doldrums and done cuffed the old bugger to the helm before they scuttled his ship and rowed off in the skiffs. He says the damn son of a bitch done chewed his own bloom’n hand off as to escape a’drow’n. ’At’s what me matey says, like a fox with his bleed’n paw a’caught in a trap. ’At’s why they calls him the Fox, by my understand’n.”

Robert the Fox looked at the pirate who had just thrown down a small treasure in gold pieces. “You’re a’bluff’n, Jack,” he accused in his thick Irish brogue. “I sees it in your eye.”

“Well, Monsieur, if I’m bluffing,” replied the cyclopean pirate with a heavy Cajun accent, “then I suggest you call this supposèd bluff and ante up; or I’ll poke both your eyes out for a’call’n Cap’n Jacques Un-Oeil a liar.”

The Fox scrutinized the excited Acadian a moment longer and then began to unstrap his golden hook. Beneath it, his right hand was nothing more than a crumpled tangle of bony sinew.

The young deckhand grimaced and exclaimed. “Blimey! How could a man do that to his own self?” he asked.

The Fox shot the youth a piercing glare and the red-faced barkeep just smiled. In a much lower voice he answered the youth: “With the brine a’swimm’n in over the gun’le, and the wheel a’dragg’n ya down, down like a rusty anchor, you’d a’chew your own hand off, lad, I’d wager; you’d a’chew it off at the bloody shoulder, if that cuff was a’pull’n you under the whitecaps, I’ll promise you that for noth’n.”

“I bloody well would not, mate!” The youth finished his mug of ale and slammed it down. Then pondering, he examined the hand that held his mug for a moment.

At the poker table, the Fox hefted his solid gold prosthetic onto the wooden planks with his good hand. “There’s a-twenty-ounce of gold in that there bleed’n hook, as what says you’re a bluffer and a liar, Jacky boy!”

Jacques Un-Oeil, a big bear of a black Cajun pirate, jumped to his feet and drew his cutlass. “I’ll run you through for them words of slander, Fox!”

“Oi, ya scurvy knaves!” cried out the barkeep. “Is ya a’play’n at poker or is ya not? Aces and wild cards win at the game, not swords and threats. Now play your hands out and see who’s the better man for it.”

Jacques Un-Oeil glared at the Fox for a moment, then put his cutlass back and plopped down into his seat. The scoundrel in front of him had a pair of henchmen with him who stood behind his chair, one on each side, and their hands rested impatiently on the pommels of their own blades.

Suddenly the Cajun laughed heartily. “Perhaps today was not your day to die after all, Monsieur Robert. I’ll take two cards in place of your worthless life.”

Robert the Fox dealt him two fresh cards and took one for himself, which he looked at closely with his sun-squinted eyes. The Irishman seemed pleased with his new card and gave a mostly toothless smile.

The Cajun seemed very happy with his own two new cards. He dug around in his tunic and from his breast drew out a small leather pouch. “Five hundred of the King’s best men,” he proclaimed placing the purse on the table.

The Fox smiled and laughed this time. “My ship, her cargo, and all her crew says you’re a’bluff’n, ya one-eyed-Jack!”

The room grew deathly silent as all the remaining eyes in the pub turned to the poker table.

Jacques Un-Oeil rocked back in his chair and examined his cards again. “You know I do not got a ship to see your wager with, Monsieur. Merde! You know I lost her in a puff of wind in August last.”

One of the Fox’s henchmen scoffed, “They say ’at it weren’t the winds as what knocked her down, so much as the excessive weight in her hold of some certain Spanish doubloons as what but until recently had belonged to King Charles his self.”

The front two legs of Jacques’ chair come crashing back down to the floor as he rocked forward and with lightning speed caught the salt by his ruffled collar, slamming his chest into the table as he brought the man’s face into within inches of his own scraggly beard. “The Hundred Years Storm of ’80 weren’t no blow to scoff at, galley boy! The seas done rolled mountains high for a three-day, twice as high as the fo’c’sle peak. They washed us about like an empty whisky bottle adrift in the tide. She lost her mainmast and her mizzen afore she was pushed onto the rocks and her back a’brok’n. I lost me entire crew, to the man, in that black gale, and I don’t take too kindly to a landlubber likes yourself a talk’n about what you don’t know noth’n about.”

Robert the Fox was not intimidated but the captain’s outburst. “I heard their throats was a’cut on account of their know’n where the Brisbane went to her watery grave, her hull a’full o’ brine and her larder still filled with the King’s gold.”

Jacques Un-Oeil squinted, his hand clinched on his saber hilt; then he laughed again. “So, Monsieur Fox, it is apparent you believe old Jacques when I tells you I’s the sole villain alive who know where me clipper ship Brisbane lies in less than two fathoms of water, a ton and more of gold and silver doubloons still in her safekeeping.”

“You’re a knave and villain, Jacky Boy, a One-Eyed cutthroat who’d slit his own mother’s gullet for a two-pence, no doubt; and for that I’d call you as honest and predictable a man as ever there was. And you might have a king’s ransom at your disposal; but it’s not here on the table, and that’s where you’d best be place’n your wagers if you intend to be see’n me cards.”

The Fox pawed at the gold and glitter in the center of the table with his good hand, ready to scoop it in, but Jacques caught him by the wrist.

“Avast, matey!” He threw Robert’s hand away from the gold, and Jacques drew from his pocket a balled-up, weathered, grime-stained rag. He carefully unwrapped the filthy handkerchief, which he opened up to reveal a single gold doubloon. This he placed face down on the table before him.

At the bar, the young deckhand asked the barkeep, “How in the name of Christ and all the Saints do ya suppose the old brigand a’means to call Robert the Fox’s bet with a single gold piece?” But when he got no reply, he turned and found that the fat man, less concerned now with the poker game than with turning his profit, had gone off to the corner with a round of drinks for a group of Spanish sailors and merchantmen.

Jacques held the coin down in place with one thick finger as though the rock of a boat he was not on might cause the coin to slide inadvertently across the table. “This here’s me last coin, but she’s not no ordinary Spanish crown. I done writ the name of four islands round about ugly old Ferdinand’s mug on the front of this doubloon, and the name of a certain mapmaker on her back.”

The Cajun lifted his finger off the coin and one of The Fox’s henchmen leaned forward to check the truth of his claim. “Don Carlos de Flores,” he read aloud. “He’s been known to have drawn a fairly accurate chart or two in his day, sometimes with more than four islands on it; so what of it?”

The Fox played with his pointed beard and squinted skeptically. “There are a thousand and more islands within a’hundred-and-fifty-league of here. So what’s the meaning of a few islands scratched on a coin?” He leaned forward to pick up the doubloon in question.

Jacques slammed his dagger into the tabletop in front of The Fox, sending the skinny Irishman recoiling back into this seat. “An Irishman’s not known for his wit, and you prove this Frenchman right, so it’s plain I’ll be forced explain the wherefores and whatnots to ya in simple English terms. Now if a man, (or an Irishman), were to draw a line from one island…,” he cut a deep scar in the oak table, right through the ante pile, from the Fox to himself, “…to another.” Then he slammed the dagger down in front of the round Spaniard who had folded. “And then drew another line from the third island…” he scored another line through the ante from the third pirate to one opposite him on the far side of the table, “…to the fourth, at the ‘X’…” he sunk his dagger down into the table at the intersection of the two lines, scattering the coins and rings in the kitty as he marked the spot, “lies me ship.”

“So says you, and every Irishman knows a Frenchman’s word’s not as good as his table manners, and yours are not quite proper. But suppose’n you was a’tell’n the truth; what of it? To wit: how do I knows her golden cargo’s still about her rot’n timbers?”

“Because the Brisbane sleeps peacefully in less than two fathoms of brine; and at low tide, less than a month ago, even with only me one good eye, I’s could still spy the casks a’lie’n in her belly.”

“Right.” Robert the Fox’s eyes were wide with excitement and anticipation. “I suppose wet gold is gold all the same. I’ll accept your marker, Jacky boy.”

Jacques Un-Oeil nodded and pushed his coin into the center of the table.

The Fox laid five spades out on the table. But as he was setting down the cards, Jacques spotted a sixth card hidden in his sleeve. The burly Cajun jumped up again, and again caught the ruffian by his arm at the wrist. “The Irish fox is a wily animal, they say’s; but not wily enough.” He pulled the hidden card from Robert the Fox’s cuff and turned it over: the queen of hearts.

The Fox struggled to free his good hand, but Jacques pulled his dagger from the table and put it to the Irishman’s throat.

This brought out cutlasses and shot pistols from several of the men watching the game, including the Fox’s two henchmen.

“Cut his heart out!” suggested the round Spaniard. “The scurvy dog’s a cheat, and half that kitty is rightfully mine!”

Andrew, the young deckhand, watched, his fist clinched on his mug of ale, but did not move.

“That’s enough out of you two swine!” Smitty came out from behind the bar brandishing a hefty Billy-club. “No brawl’n in me tavern tonight. Take it into the street.”

But someone brought a bottle down on the round man’s head from behind, and all hell broke loose.

Jacques buried his dagger to the hilt, shoving it up into the Fox’s skull under his chin.

With a wild cry, the Fox’s first mate and helmsman leapt at Jacques, but he evaded them both, leaving his dagger in old Robert’s throat. One saber caught his right shoulder and the buffet drew crimson blood, but then One-Eyed Jack had out his own cutlass and the Fox’s men were hard pressed to touch him a second time. He had one of their arms and from the other he slashed off a good piece of his thigh. “Wretched Irishmen!” he cried.

An instant later he was cut down himself with the lead ball of a black powder pistol. The fight raged on as the Spaniard, a hearty buccaneer himself, finished off the two henchmen before he was stabbed from behind by an African with a machete.

Swords hacked off fingers and limbs and the smoke of pistols filled the room until almost nothing could be seen.

“A curse on all of you sea dogs!” groaned the dying Cajun pirate. He examined the blood that soaked his chest where the shot had shivered his breastbone and passed right through him. “A curse on any greedy dog who tries to find me gold now. May the sea have his body and the devil his soul!”

Andrew, who had tossed aside his mug of ale and had joined in the ruckus with old Smitty’s billy-club, was pummeled over the head then with a stool, and he collapsed onto the thick-planked floor just as Jacques Un-Oeil uttered his last curse and a died with cough of blood.

The burly barkeep came to just about then and staggered to his feet as the foray began to die down. All of the poker players and the Fox’s two henchmen, as well as the some six or eight other sailors and brigands in the place, lay dead, unconscious, or dying on the floor. He retrieved his billy-club and pounded it on the table until the brawling had almost stopped. By then it was down to two drunk local fishermen, to each of whom he gave a good knock on the brainpan, and the room was at last silent again. He was the only man left standing, and he scooped the golden ante up into his apron and waddled back behind his bar. “This should just about cover damages and expenses.” He looked around his tavern, at the pieces of men, furniture, and glass and said to himself: “It’s a damn shame; it’ll take another two-year to order another mirror from Paris and have it shipped out here again. Now who’ll have another drink?”

A pair of shipmates who had just been at it fist on fist, helped each other up off the floor and reconciled instantly with the prospect of a mug of grog in hand, and the one put his arm around the other’s shoulder and walked him over to the bar, stepping over the young deckhand, Andrew. “Now what was we a’fight’n about, Johnny?”

“I’ll be blimey’d if I knows, Johnny.”

“Right, matey.” He belched stoutly. “A brandy for me mate, here, Johnny, and a draught o’ grog for me-self, Master Barkeep.” He tossed a gold doubloon into Smitty’s apron, who was just then dumping the whole hoard of coins into his till.

“Wench!” called out Smitty as he brought the men their drinks. “Bar-wench!”

Abby, a slave old Smitty had won off the pilot of a slave ship, came out of the kitchen at his calling. “Yes, sir, master?”

“Better get the mop and bucket out, we’ve had another spat here tonight.”

Fishing around in his till-box, the stout barkeep could not find a total of seven pieces of eight to give the two mates their change, so he pulled out his eight-piece-cutter and put a doubloon from the till on the bar top. With his sturdy cudgel blow he gave the cutter a good whack and split the coin into pieces of eight, seven of which he handed to the sailor as his change. “Seven bits is what you’re due, but another bit will buy more brew.”

“Here’s one bit for your effort, Master Barkeep, and one more for another round.” Johnny the tailor slapped two of the pieces of eight back on the bar and shoved the rest in his pocket.

When he and his mate each had another mug in their hands, Johnny the blacksmith offered: “Here’s to your health, Johnny.”

“And here’s to yours, Johnny! Cheers, mate!”

They finished their drinks and staggered off, stumbling over Andrew again on their way out, as Abby sloshed away at the gore with her mop.

The young deckhand groaned then and pulled himself up to the bar.

Smitty poured him a new mug of ale and slid it across the counter to him. “Jacques Un-Oeil and Robert the Fox; I’ll miss their business—the scurvy dogs!”

Andrew nodded and sipped his ale, rubbing the top of his head. Before him on the counter were the two bits left behind by the shipmates. Slowly he began to realize what doubloon the pieces of eight had come from. “Don Carlos De Flores,” he read the name on the back of one of the bits of gold aloud.

“What’s that, laddie?”

“Noth’n, Smitty. Noth’n at all.” Disbelieving his eyes, he picked up the piece of eight and turned it over in his hands. But sure enough, there was the name of an island scratched on the other side. He picked up the other bit. Half of one letter had been cut from a second island, but that was all. Quickly he dug through his pockets for two silver sterling, which he slapped down on the counter. Holding up the two pieces of eight, he said, “Mind if I trade ya, me landlady won’t take noth’n but gold.”

“Two sterling’s as good as two bits to me, Andrew me boy.”

“Good the-night, then, old Smitty; and what a night it was!” He dashed to the door and disappeared out into the night in search of the other six pieces of eight.

• • • •

That was more than some two hundred years ago. Andrew never came across the other six pieces of eight, nor did he ever learn the names of the islands to be found on three of them, and thus he comes not again into our tale; but his story spread, and soon the legend of Jacques Un-Oeil, the one-eyed pirate, and of his infamous pieces of eight, the wreck of the Brisbane in the Hundred Years Storm of 1780, and its captain’s dying curse had become as much a part of Southern history as the Louisiana Purchase or Cajun blackened catfish.

Chapter 1—1992

White Teeth and Yellow Gold

In late July of 1992, Hurricane Andrew—the most powerful storm of the century—was nothing more than a warm breeze off the west coast of Africa.

• • • •

The Keewatin, a 72-foot gaff-rigged schooner of 50 tons, cut across the smooth blue waters of the Caribbean Sea towards a lone island in the Florida Keys. The day was bright and the weather, fair. It was the middle of hurricane season, but there had yet to be a named storm that year.

Jack O’Connor stood at the helm as he enjoyed sailing a beautiful boat reminiscent of the glorious seafaring days of yore. His mind drifted, and he wondered whether, had he been born hundreds of years earlier, his love for the sea might have brought him to become a pirate or a merchant mariner. He certainly would not have ended up with a degree in Computer Science & Information Technology; (that had been his father’s doing and the pressures of capitalism in a modern world). But of course, even back then he might have let his father pressure him into going into banking or some other such respectable business. But somehow, without even reaching his thirtieth birthday, he had managed to break away from his former life of pressed shirts and bold ties and had escaped his domineering father. So why not, if he had been able to do so in the twentieth century, would it have been any different had he been raised in the sixteenth or seventeenth century?

Yes, I’d have become a swashbuckling buccaneer, he thought, the captain of a tall ship, a three-masted clipper such as the Cutty Sark, perhaps. I’d have gathered together a brave crew of cutthroats and villains who would have helped me steal her from some fat old tobacco merchant. Or better yet, I’d have signed on as a deckhand on a slave ship setting out from the Ivory Coast. Then I’d have freed some six or nine of the bravest Africans and together we’d have taken over the ship. We’d have abandoned the captain, mate, and crew on some deserted tropical island, and once we’d set the rest of the slaves free, some sixteen or twenty of them would have, of course, insisted upon staying on as my crew. I’d have taught them all I knew about the sea, and they’d have remained eternally loyal and true, until one day, when I was as rich as a king, I’d give the ship to them and retire to a comfortable life of leisure in Paris or London.

“Do you have any Dramamine on board?”

Jack was startled out of his daydreams by a man’s voice. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have any Dramamine on board, or anything else for seasickness. I think my wife is turning green.”

Jack looked over at the lovely young woman who had taken advantage of her golden locks and slim figure in order to snare herself a husband who could afford to charter 72-foot schooners such as the Keewatin for a week at a time. Sure he was twice her age, but he was worth more than twice as much as she would have made in ten lifetimes on her own. “In the wall locker that’s in the head off of the galley.”

“Where?”

“In the medicine chest that’s in the bathroom next to the kitchen.”

“Right. Those nautical terms. You’d think I’d have learned them by now; I do have my own 55-foot sloop up in the Hamptons.”

Wally Weisman was a balding retired businessman who had chartered the Keewatin for a private dive trip just for his wife, Marilyn, who had recently gotten certified as a scuba diver. He shuffled forward towards the main hatch trying to keep his balance in the slight southwesterly swells and slid it open.

“Don’t forget to turn around to go down the companionway.”

“The companionway?” Mr. Weisman hollered back.

“The ladder. It’s steep.” Jack looked at Wally’s wife. She really did look green. He had seen it before, but was still amazed that a human being could actually turn green. “We’ll be at anchor in less than an hour, Mrs. Weisman; and it will be much calmer then.” Jack had always thought that “turning green” was only an expression used in books and movies. But then he had learned a lot about the sea and about sailing over the last few years, since hiring on aboard the Keewatin as a deckhand for Old Man Smitty, her owner. After a year, he had been promoted to first mate, when the previous mate, an old geezer named Jim Brown, had finally decided to get married, settle down, and move to Idaho. That was back in the days when Smitty had sailed the Keewatin a lot and had captained his own vessel. Now, Jack worked for him as her captain, since the old man mostly just chartered his boat out to pay for her upkeep.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Marilyn Weisman leaning out over the edge.

“Don’t worry. I won’t look.” Jack knew how embarrassed she must have felt; she was so beautiful she looked like she might have been a high fashion model before marrying into money. Then, he had the thought that she was probably quite accustomed to throwing up, (just not in public). But mostly he thought about how he was going to have to clean her vomit off the hull when they had dropped anchor.

An hour and six minutes later they motored into the small secluded lagoon where Jack took his highest paying fares for their last night. The diving was exceptional, the locale beautiful, and a fresh breeze always blew in from the east that kept it cool and helped to keep the mosquitoes down. All these things he hoped would add up to a rather nice tip for the week. He ran forward and let loose the bow anchor, which drifted down into the perfectly clear water right where he wanted it to, in a large patch of sandy bottom between the coral reefs.

Another hour after that, Wally and Marilyn were suiting up for their last dive of the trip. Jack went over their gear and corrected their mistakes again, hooking up Mrs. Weisman’s regulator the proper way and turning Mr. Weisman’s weight belt around so that the quick release buckle would open with his right hand in an emergency.

“Will we see any sharks today, do you think?” asked Marilyn excitedly.

“You and your sharks! I certainly hope not,” replied her husband before Jack could answer.

“We might, but I doubt it. Seeing a real shark just once in your lifetime as a sport diver is a lucky thing, unless you purposefully go looking for them.”

“I wish this weren’t our last day.”

“Well, there’s always next season. I hope you two will come out again on the Keewatin; we’re always anxious to have such nice people aboard.”

• • • •

Under the water everything was different. It was cool and silent and the harsh tropical sun was just a memory in shades of blue, mauve, and aquamarine. Jack lead the couple along, pointing out a large colorful redband parrotfish munching away on some brain coral. He found the spotted moray eel he affectionately called, “Spot,” and breaking open a scallop, scooped the sweet white meat out and hand fed it to the eel while the Weismans watched.

Jack had just brought them to the wreck of a small steamship that had sunk in the Hundred Years Storm a century ago, when he caught a flash of silver/gray out of the corner of his eye. He turned and found what he had feared—a white-tipped reef shark, not a truly large one, but one big enough to take a ten-pound hunk of flesh out of his thigh with one powerful chomp.

Mrs. Weisman saw the whites of Jack’s eyes and turned just in time to see the long, slender torpedo shoot straight towards her husband’s back. Her underwater scream could barely be heard from six feet away, and Wally had no time to turn around to see the deadly predator before it hit him. But that saved his life.

The shark clamped its jaws around Mr. Weisman’s scuba tank, thrashed him about for a second or two like a rag doll, then let go and circled around to wait for its prey to die. That was a reef shark’s usual mode of attack—inflict a lethal bite and then retreat and wait; but Wally was lucky, his B.C.D. was shredded and one low-pressure hose severed, but he hardly had a scratch himself. He was in a panic, though, and hyperventilating; still, Jack was able to calm him down enough to implement the procedure they had discussed before their first dive—in the event of encountering an overly curious shark, they were to slowly sink to the bottom and wait for it to go away. Jack tied the low pressure hose that had gone to Mr. Weisman’s power inflator into a tight knot to stop it from free-flowing and draining his tank.

The wreck of the Jasmine was only ten yards away and she still had enough of a cabin intact for them to hide inside her wheelhouse, so Jack guided them over to the decaying boat. There, they waited for several minutes while the white-tip circled the area lazily.

Marilyn clung to Jack like a starfish on a mussel. He peeled her fingers from his arm and made eye contact with her. Forcing her to keep her eyes on his, he nodded reassuringly. He gave her the okay sign and she tentatively returned it with an okay of her own.

Mr. Weisman tugged at Jack’s arm suddenly, again in a panic. He held up his pressure gauge to indicate that he was getting dangerously low on air. He only had about 100 pounds of pressure left in his tank, enough for few minutes; and Jack tried to keep him calm as long as possible.

When Wally took his last breath and it only filled his lugs half-way, Jack could see it in the man’s eyes. Jack took a deep breath from his own regulator and tore it out of his mouth. He jammed it in Mr. Weisman’s mouth, and the man frantically gasped a few breaths.

Jack had to practically wrestle the second stage away from Mr. Weisman; but after five or six breaths, he was able to take back his regulator and have three breaths for himself.

He made a vow, then, that he would pay the extra his boss was too cheap to put out for an octopus setup on their equipment so that in an emergency more than one diver could use a single tank without having to “buddy-breathe.”

Jack and Mr. Weisman shared the single regulator for several more minutes, each man taking three breaths from the second stage before passing it on to the other; and still, the shark did not swim off.

Jack checked his own pressure gauge: 500 lbs. He checked Marilyn’s: 700 lbs. They only had about three to five minutes left before his tank would run out of air. Jack had to do something. He did not have his Hawaiian sling with him, or he might have tried spearing the big fish, though it would hardly have been a match for the shark’s thick sandpaper-like hide.

Desperately, Jack looked around. There was a large metal grab-rail still attached to the wreck of the Jasmine. He thought he might be able to break it loose. He slipped out of his B.C.D. and forced his tank and regulator on Mr. Weisman.

Between breaths, Jack was able to tear the six-foot rail away from the rotting deck of the shipwreck. Just as it came loose, he saw a glint of gold down in the deeper shadows of the hold. Curiosity got the better of him and, still holding his breath, he swam deeper into the interior of the wreck to have a quick look. He found an encrusted round ball about seven inches in diameter and beneath it, a pristine glint of gold. He picked up the ball, which seemed curiously familiar, and grabbed the small bit of gold. It was triangular, about the size of a dime. He was trying to figure out what it might be when he realized what the hollow ball was. He turned it around. A skull! He dropped it in horror and floundered backwards as fast as he could, yanking the regulator out of Mr. Weisman’s mouth to gasp for air. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to take calm deep breaths. One. Two. Three.

Damn! He had left the rail behind.

He looked at his pressure gauge again while Wally took his turn with the regulator: 125 lbs. Jack put the bit of gold into the inner pocket of his swimsuit and took two deep breaths and let them out. The third he held as he swam back into the wreck. In a few strokes he had the rail in hand. In a few more, he emerged from the Jasmine on the farther side. He was used to free diving and could hold his breath for about three minutes, but not with his heart pounding at about a-hundred-and-fifty beats per minute and every drop of his adrenaline pumping through his veins. He did not want to get too close to the white-tip, but he knew he had to lure it towards him.

Jack hovered about ten feet above the coral, spinning counter-clockwise to keep the shark in sight. His lungs ached and the urge to breathe grew steadily stronger, but he knew that he still had about a minute left before he would have to swim back to the wreck for another breath of air.

But then the shark arched its back and turned, signaling another imminent attack. Jack held the iron rail ready and when the shark shot in, he jabbed at it, shoving the rod deep into its throat. This sent the large fish into a frenzied convulsion as it shook its snout from side to side trying to get the steel shaft out of its throat and mouth. Jack let go and when the shark had rid itself of the grab-rail it shot off into the blue and was gone from sight in a few seconds.

Jack swam for the surface and popped out of the water like a marlin trying to break off the line. For what seemed like minutes he took deep, panting breaths, unable to satisfy his body’s desire to rid itself of carbon dioxide and replenish its supply of oxygen. A moment later, the Weismans surfaced and tore off their masks, also gasping for air. They were all still fifty yards from the skiff in which they had motored over to the dive site. Jack dove back under to recover their masks before they sank to the bottom.

When he came back up, he ordered: “Put these back on. We’ll snorkel over to the boat.”

“But the shark. Won’t he come back?”

“I don’t think so,” assured Jack. “His throat will be too sore to swallow anything for a week at least.”

Mr. Weisman did not say a word. His face was as pale as a whitecap as Jack turned him towards the skiff. He gave the old man a shove and then took Mrs. Weisman by the hand and towed her towards the skiff.

Once they were all aboard the Keewatin, Mr. Weisman collapsed onto the deck and refused to be moved for nearly an hour. He just lay there, the shredded B.C.D. and its scarred tank still strapped to his back. Mrs. Weisman was able to get his fins and booties off, but he refused to get up or be moved. Jack put together a makeshift awning, which he tied to the mast and shrouds to shade the old man, and then collapsed into his own bunk up in the forecastle.

About twenty minutes later, he awoke as Mrs. Weisman was crawling into the V-berth with him.

“Wally’s asleep in our cabin.”

“Shouldn’t you be in there with him, Mrs. Weisman?”

“After an entire week together and after having saved my life, you could at least call me Marilyn.”

“What are you doing in here, Mrs. Weisman?”

“Trying to thank you for saving my life.”

“Saving all our lives, you mean.”

“Of course. Thank you Jack.” She kissed him, and although he was reluctant at first, she was, after all, a beautiful woman, and she would not have been the first wife to have climbed into his bunk in the night .

They made love, and then Jack fell asleep again. When he woke up, she was gone and it was dark outside the small round portholes.

Chapter 2

The Missing Piece of Eight

A few weeks later, Jack was back in Key West at Barnacle Bill’s Bar and Grill. The Weismans were long gone and his shark tale had grown to include how he had gouged out the eye of an eighteen-foot tiger shark with only his dive knife, saving the lives of a famous actress, (whose name he had promised not to divulge), and her wealthy husband. He usually left out the part about the wife having seduced him afterwards when telling his story to perspective females, but with the local fishermen and old salts, it always included a detailed description of just how they had done it and how many times.

At the moment, Jack was talking to a young woman at the bar and showing her his gold piece of eight. “You see, people used to cut their coins in half, or into quarters, or eights to make change, because the king only made once size coin. In fact, that’s why they used to call a quarter two bits.”

The woman nodded and replied, “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar.”

“Sure, that’s where the nursery rhyme comes from. You know, I’ve actually got a whole treasure chest full of gold doubloons aboard my yacht.”

“Come on.”

Jack laughed. “Well, maybe just a jar full of pennies.”

“But you really do live on a yacht, right?” She seemed rather impressed with Jack’s tale and the fact that he was the captain of such a magnificent boat as the one he had described.

“The 72-foot schooner Keewatin,” he assured her. “You know, we should go out sailing some time. I can’t this weekend, but if you gave me your number, I could call you some time.”

She looked out the window that overlooked the marina. “Can’t you sail at night?”

Jack just smiled again and nodded. “Sure, I can. And when the moon’s near full, like it will be tonight, it shines on the water like a million silver diamonds.”

• • • •

The next morning, Jack woke up in the forward berth of the Keewatin. Without opening his eyes, he reached for where the young lady had been lying when they fell asleep. She was gone, and he was pleasantly surprised. He fluffed his pillow and curled up around it to sleep in a few more minutes.

Later that morning, Jack went to Captain Billau’s Sea Junk & Chandlery to pick up some special equipment he had ordered from the slightly-disreputable but highly-resourceful owner.

“Morn’n, Jack,” said Billau, looking up when he heard the tinkle of brass bells as the shop door opened and closed.

“Morn’n, Billau.”

“Wrestle any great whites over the weekend?”

“The only shark I expect to deal with in the near future is standing behind that counter. Has that custom equipment I ordered come in yet?”

Captain Billau, a large heavy-set fellow in his mid-fifties pulled something out from under his counter and handed it to Jack. It was a home-made contraption, obviously combining a bulky cellular phone with a high-end G.P.S. “That should do the trick for you,” he said proudly. “The cell phone’s being activated later today.”

“Thanks. And did those stainless steel shackles come in yet?”

“I don’t usually get that order in until Wednesday. You want me to put the remote GPS on the Keewatin account?”

Jack reached into his pocket. “No. Smitty gave me the cash for it.” He emptied his pockets onto the counter and amid a wad of $20 bills, keys, and change, his lucky piece of eight fell out.

Instantly, Billau’s eye was drawn to the shiny gold. “She’s a beauty. May I?” He picked up the piece of eight and examined it. Jack waited patiently, but after a few seconds he held out his hand to take the coin back.

“You found it diving?”

“On the last charter. Almost makes up for the dive gear the shark tore up.”

Captain Billau nodded skeptically. “The eighteen-foot bull; or was it a tiger shark? I can’t remember.”

“Can I just have my coin back, please?”

Billau went to hand the piece of eight back, but then suddenly noticed something and drew the gold bit back in to examine it more closely.

Jack reached over the counter and took his little treasure back. “Thanks.”

“You really don’t know what coin that is, do you?” asked Billau.

The little bell above the door chimed as another customer walked into the store.

Captain Billau leaned in closer to Jack. “That’s the Missing Piece of Eight.”

“What are you talking about, Billau? Who lost it? I found it fair and square.”

Billau watched the new customer browse around his shop; and when he was out of earshot, said, “The whole world lost it. Well, actually it was lost at sea with Charles Winston Pennington the First. That coin is cursed, you know.”

“Then maybe I should give it to you.”

Captain Billau actually looked a little frightened. “Jack, that coin is worth millions.”

Jack laughed out loud, but then he realized old Billau was not kidding around.

“Not in a coin shop. Listen, you see that name scratched on the front of the coin? That’s the old name for Saint Sebastian’s Island.”

Jack tried to make out the faint writing. “Sonte Bastone. So?”

Again, Captain Billau eyed the other customer and waited for him to head to the back of the shop. “So… two hundred years ago, a pirate named Jacques Un-Oeil lost his ship, the Brisbane, in the Hundred Years Storm of 1780. Legend has it he scratched the name of four islands down on a Spanish doubloon so that if you were to draw the diagonals between the four islands on a map, at the intersection you’d find his treasure.”

“A treasure map? Come on, you’re pulling my leg, Billau. ‘ “X” marks the spot?’ ”

“Where do you think the stories about pirates and buried treasure came from?”

“All right. I’ll give you this much: sure sometimes legends are loosely based on fact; but a curse?”

“I ain’t saying I believe in the curse anymore than I believe your shark story, but stranger things have been known to happen.”

Jacked looked a little more closely at his bit of coin. Sometimes truth could be stranger than fiction; he knew that all to well. “So what’s the curse, at least according to the legend?”

“With his dying breath, the old one-eyed pirate uttered a curse upon anyone greedy enough to try and steal his gold.”

“So I’m safe just as long as I don’t try to find the rest of the treasure?”

Billau was deadly serious. “That’s how Mr. Pennington lost his piece of eight—this piece of eight. Supposedly, he tried to swindle his partners out of their share of the treasure, and his boat sank in the Hundred Years Storm of 1888, while searching for the gold on his own.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe any of this, do you Billau?” Jack picked up his remote GPS and turned to go. The other customer had just gone out and the bell on the door jangled.

“The same storm got Pennington that got Jacques Un-Oeil—the Hundred Years Storm; think about it, Jack; and it’s been more than a hundred years since the last great storm. We’re due for another one… Just when the Missing Piece of Eight is found. Don’t you think that’s curious?”

Jack paused and turned back. “We have hurricanes every year.”

“But not the really great ones, not the ones that come only about once every century, not the kind of which legends are made.”

“So where are the other three pieces of eight, if they’re not lost?” Jack did not really expect Billau to seriously answer him, but the old man did.

“One’s in the National Maritime Museum. The name of the island scratched on that coin is common knowledge: Isle de Solo.”

“Lonely Island?” Jack was starting to believe Billau, at that point; and he set his order back down on the counter and listened a little more closely. “And the other two coins?”

“I think the third is still in the Pennington estate. Who knows where the last piece is, but someone has it. Twenty years ago, when I first heard the story, it belonged to a high-stakes gambler out of Atlantic City—Shady Tony, or something; but someone like that probably didn’t hold on to it for long.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Billau?”

“Just check it out, Jack. Go to the library and look up the wreck of the Brisbane and the Pieces of Eight Treasure. But whatever you do, don’t sell that coin until you know what it is you’ve got.”

Jack looked at the piece of eight in his hand one final time and then put it back in his pocket before walking out the door just as a rich yachtsman was coming in.

“Can I help you find something?” offered Billau.

“Yeah, maybe you can. I’m not sure what it’s called on a boat, but I’m looking for that thing that you put on the prop to stop the corrosion.”

“Sacrificial zinc. Do you know what size prop shaft you have?”

“Um… Well, it’s about this big around…”

The bell chimed again and Jack walked back into the shop.

“My truck’s gone.”

The yachtsman looked over. “Was it a beat-up old red pickup?” Jack nodded. “Well, a tow truck was just towing it away as I pulled up, I’m afraid.”

“Great! It looks like your curse is starting to take affect already, Billau. Thanks.” Jack turned around and slammed the door on his way out.

• • • •

That afternoon, Jack slid open the main hatch to the Keewatin and climbed below decks. He set the remote GPS down on the chart table and slid down onto the small settee to listen to his phone messages. The little red light on the answering machine blipped periodically and its LCD window indicated that there were three unheard messages. He pressed the “Listen” button and the machine beeped once.

“Mr. O’Connor?” The voice was heavy and gruff. The man sounded irritated. “This is Andy’s Tow and Repo. We’ve got your truck down here…”

Jack hit the “Fast-forward” button, and the tape scanned to the next message.

“Jack! This is Jennifer, from the other night at the Pizza place…” Her voice was sweet but sounded a little desperate.

Again, Jack fast-forwarded to the next message. It was an older gentleman with a hint of upper-class East-Coast. “Smitty’s Marine Sailing? This is Robert Anderson; we were supposed to have your boat chartered for the next two weeks… Well, I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel the trip. It turns out a member of our party just found out that he gets terribly sea sick; so we’re going to go skiing in Austria, instead…”

“Great!” Jack punched the “Erase” button and sat in the semi-darkness below decks as the machine rewound itself to the beginning of the tape. After a moment, he reached behind the settee he was sitting on and dug around behind the back cushion. Below some rolled-up nautical charts he found a mostly-empty bottle of whisky. He got up and went to the galley where he pulled out a plastic tumbler. As he sat down in the salon, he emptied his pockets on the fold-out table and filled his glass with the brown whisky. He took a deep draught; and leaning back put his head against the gunwale, closed his eyes, and let out a deep sigh.

The phone began to ring, but he let the machine pick up. It was a woman from his bank. “Mr. O’Connor, I’m calling on behalf of the First Federated Bank of Miami, with regards to your past due automobile loan. You should consider this your final warning and notification. You are now 90 days past due and may have your car impounded…”

Jack stared blankly at something on the table. He reached out and spread out the contents from his pocket, sliding the gold piece of eight out into view. Was it really the Missing Piece of Eight, he wondered? For a long time, he sat and stared at the one-eighth bit of a Spanish doubloon that he had so “accidentally” come across.

• • • •

The next day, Jack went to the Public Library. Quickly, he homed in on a cute young librarian who was willing to spend a few hours helping him do some research, in exchange for a promised dinner in the restaurant of her choice at the Marina. As things turned out, he was disappointed with neither the research nor the researcher.

Chapter 3

The Pennington Heritage

The marble statues and imported columns that surrounded and held up the palatial Long Island estate of Charles Winston Pennington III, Esquire, were just about as cold and rigid as the man himself. His third wife, Patricia-Jean, had died giving birth to his only child, a daughter, Portia, some twenty-four years earlier; and if he had not been bitter before, he had always been reclusive and insensitive. You might say he enjoyed his money, about as much as any man who spends every moment of his day making more of it can. You might say he enjoyed his women, about as much as any man who has to pay for love can. You could definitely say he enjoyed his brandy, but only about as much as any man who would never consider allowing himself to become fully intoxicated can. But he loved his daughter, whether he was effective in demonstrating the fact or not. And she loved him; after all, he was all she had in the world.

At the moment, they were sitting before the family hearth enjoying a drink. Mr. Pennington was sipping on a snifter of 1832 brandy from the family vineyards just outside of Cognac, and Portia had her usual evening glass of warm milk beside her on the end table. She would drink it before retiring for the night, but now it stood full and white on a hand-crocheted black doily set on the Louis XIV table.

Charles was perusing a legal document from the office, and Portia was engrossed in a book with a pink, hand-sewn, satin jacket cover. The only sounds in the large room were those of the quietly-snapping and -popping oak wood in the fireplace and the soothing, rhythmic ticking of the great mahogany grandfather clock against the opposite wall. From time to time, Portia glanced up at her father and tried to catch his eye; but he did not notice her efforts and rather continued to scrutinize his files. So, she read her book silently, turning the pages almost in time with him; and that gave her a comforting feeling, for it felt almost as though they were reading the same book together.

The grandfather clock struck the hour, ten deep resounding chimes, and Portia picked up her glass of milk.

“Time for you to go to bed, dear,” said Mr. Pennington.

“Yes father.” She answered like a small child, not the recently returned collage graduate she was. But Vassar had not managed to instill in her a great deal of maturity; it had not been all that different from the sheltered upbringing she had known at home, up until she had gone off to school. She could not really understand the other students, and they did not seem very interested in her; so most of her free time had been spent in the library or in the dormitories, reading and studying quietly while her roommates were off at parties or on dates to the movies. And now, four lonely years later, she was back home. Lonely, as ever. She was older, but she did not feel any older. She had a piece of paper that decreed that she had learned a great deal, but she did not feel any wiser, either.

Portia finished off her glass of milk just as the maid, Eileen Brandemier, arrived to receive the empty glass.

“Good night, Eileen,” said Portia, as she rose to go off to bed.

“Good night, Miss.” Eileen curtsied. She was barely older than Portia, but was a proper English house servant and always called her, “Miss,” or, “my Lady.”

“Good night, father.” Portia wanted to kiss him on the cheek but did not really dare.

“Good night, my dear,” he offered, not looking up from his work.

“Will my Lady be needing anything else before she retires this evening?”

Portia shook her head and walked towards the long winding staircase that would take her up to her bedroom refuge. She noticed that the maid remained silently standing in the study, but went on up to bed without another thought about it.

PHOTO: ©2003 MOLLY HEWITT

Michael Reed McLaughlin is an avid sailor and an independent filmmaker. He lived on his 32' ketch for fifteen years, before moving to the Hollywood Hills. He is also the author of the high fantasy trilogies The Hero Sagas and The Hero Within.

To learn more about the author, visit his page at: mrmproductions.com