He took another sip of the draft and, drying his fingers on the thighs of his pants, flipped open the heavy navy blue front cover embossed in gold and black lettering. The first few pages were clear onionskin in a cream shade, crinkling as he turned each page carefully. He looked at the date of the publication.
1860.
Pirates of the Americas, by Sir Anthony Markham.
Carl began to read the short prologue.
I have attempted to explain the life of piracy certain brave young men took to when their families stopped supporting them and their fortunes waned. Lured by the call to adventure, they engaged in practices we might today consider criminal, yet they were in fact sanctioned and often openly supported by the Royal houses of England, France and Spain.
These men, and a few women, were pawns in a much larger chess game played out by the kings and queens, knights and bishops of their time.
And yet their bravery and gallantry, their respect for the code of the high seas made them royalty, without the golden robes and crowns. For wealth can be defined in many ways.
Unlike their earthly masters, some even cheated death itself. I would like to think they rule over kingdoms we have yet to discover, that their graves house a bundle of bones but their souls reign supreme and live forever.
—Sir A.M.
June, 1856
Carl thumbed through the list of chapters, not knowing which one he needed. His finger stopped at the Sixteenth Chapter entitled: The Life and Tragedy of Jonas Starling.
Jonas Starling was born in 1667, the youngest of four brothers, and grew up in the country surrounding the town of York, where his father, the 3
rd
Earl of Stratoven, had considerable lands and tended a well-managed family farm. He also had developed plantations in the Caribbean, and, as a young boy, Jonas had accompanied his father there to learn about overseeing his family’s interests in the islands some day.
A tall handsome lad as a youth, he came to the attention of the ladies quite early. As the youngest son, he would not inherit, but if he married well, could advance his station in life considerably. So, at the age of eighteen, he was betrothed to the lovely Anne Mackenzie, only daughter and heir to Ian Mackenzie, a very wealthy Scottish Laird. This match would also secure Mackenzie’s ties to England, as his father had been rumored to be a supporter of the restoration of the Scottish monarchy, though Ian Mackenzie swore otherwise.
Carl looked around him. The tavern had filled to near capacity. A number of couples were eyeing his booth with the empty bench seat across from him. He had a twinge of guilt, but was anxious to get back to his reading.
Before the marriage could take place, however, in 1685 Jonas was summoned to the Court of Charles II, who was in desperate need of a male heir, having fathered a dozen children, illegitimately. The Queen looked fondly upon the young lad so, as a test of his family’s loyalty and to help cement the Mackenzie alliance, he was asked to spend the summer with her and to become her lover. He was to bring about a male heir, under the cloak of secrecy. A high Catholic, the superstitious Portuguese-bred Queen secretly believed enemies of her husband’s had cursed her womb.
Heartbroken, at first Jonas refused, but when even his betrothed urged him to do his part for his family and her clan, he relented. He came to live at the court, ostensibly to advise the King on farming techniques.
“Excuse me. Can we join you?” A fresh-faced coed leaned toward him, her arm entwined with a young man’s. He was laughing, conversing with a couple at an adjoining table, oblivious to what his companion was trying to negotiate.
“Yes,” Carl said despite the fact that he felt like his private life had been intruded upon. When she looked down at what he was reading, he covered it with his right hand. The young woman pulled her companion down next to her, across the table from Carl and his book.
“I’m Robert. Thanks.” The kid held his hand out as he snuggled close to the girl.
Carl shook his hand and then pulled the book into his chest a bit, checking the surrounding area to make sure no one else could read over his shoulder. The couple began to make out furiously. Even though Carl was trying to find his place, he couldn’t help but notice the young man’s hand slipping under her shirt. When he looked at her face, she was smiling at him, over the top of her friend’s head as he kissed her neck and upper chest.
It reminded Carl of how long it had been since he’d made love to a woman. He quickly found his place and soon forgot about the room and the randy young couple.
In short order, the Queen’s pregnancy became known. Anxious to return to his home in York and the arms of his young betrothed, he was disappointed to learn the Queen had no intention of releasing him. In fact, she believed he was good luck to her, and rewarded loyalty by allowing childless ladies in her court to lay with him in exchange for favors. He threatened to escape many times, but was warned that he held the fortunes, if not the lives, of his father and his soon to be father-in-law, in the palm of his hand.
The scandal of his real purpose at the Court broke just as the King died, leaving the country in disarray. As a male heir had not yet been born, an uprising ensued. Jonas refused to join the cause. Before he could get home, armies slaughtered all of the Mackenzies, including Anne. Jonas’ father and his two brothers were hanged in the public square as traitors. Jonas fled to the Caribbean.
Though he was rightful heir to the family’s interests in the Virgin Islands, he was thwarted by numerous slave uprisings. A huge infusion of capital was needed to help stabilize the disrupted operations. Hindered by a lack of funds, the plantations were taken over by several managers and agents who had been previously loyal to the elder Starling.
Carl heard her moan. She was straddling him, and it appeared they were doing it right there. In spite of himself, Carl blushed. He no longer felt it was his table.
“Excuse me,” he whispered as he stood and left them to their lovemaking. He didn’t even get a look from them as he parted his way through the crowd and into the night air. It frustrated him he had to be so close to so many people.
Three doors down was a much quieter place, a coffee house with tons of vacant tables. He chose one in the corner and ordered a cappuccino.
Jonas turned to the seas and joined what he thought was a salvage operation, in order to raise funds to defend his claim. Through mutiny and demise of the captain on one voyage, he was pressed into service as a pirate, or face death.
Jonas excelled at being a corsair or pirate. He soon rose through the ranks and became known as the Blackbird, using a black starling symbol on his ship’s colors. He brought great wealth to his crew and investors who hired him. But he tried to spare human life whenever possible, and had a reputation for protecting women, especially beautiful women. This made little difference to the authorities, and he became a wanted man, unable to have a permanent home without fear of being arrested. One day, his luck ran out.
The barista brought him a large-handled brown ceramic cup and saucer. He inhaled the frothy foam at the top and savored the warm elixir he loved on Sunday mornings while reading his newspaper. Had the world gone crazy? Kids having sex in front of him at his favorite tavern? Promising students with perhaps a dark agenda? Lovely Molly who haunted him and made his groin lurch whenever he thought of her? A mysterious lady wanting information about a 17
th
century man who turned to a life of piracy after losing his entire fortune and his family?
I’m merely a professor. Am I a magnet for these things?
He didn’t have an answer.
He read on:
Having lost all he held dear, and now a wanted criminal, he perished in a prison somewhere on Antigua in his early twenties.
Stories are still told in dark places in some of the shantytowns dotted throughout the Caribbean, that Jonas lived, and was found leading a quiet life in several places around the islands. Rumor has it that each time he was found, he would disappear again.
Carl wondered why he had never run across this compelling story before.
Why is she interested in him?
He considered the sultry dark-haired young woman who asked for his help, who had agreed to advance him a month’s wages to give her a dossier on this intriguing character from history. He was to meet up with her on Saturday at this very coffee shop.
He thumbed through the book, looking for other references to Jonas Starling, but could find none. He finished off his coffee, declining a second cup and tipped the girl generously. He cradled the book under his left arm and made a path to the front door.
Grateful for the cool night air, he decided to walk the few blocks to an all-night copy store, instead of taking his car. There, he duplicated the short chapter.
“You have permission to copy this? Ever hear about copyright laws?” The clerk had greasy hair and pink skin, dotted with red blemishes. His dark eyes studied him.
Carl opened the cover of the book and flipped to the publication date. “You ever heard of Shastra Publishing? Do you think anyone is still alive who cares?” The clerk looked down at his finger tapping on the 1860 notation.
“Never can tell.”
Carl looked at his watch. “Look, man, I’ll just go somewhere else. I come in here all the time and make copies of manuscripts. I’m a history professor.”
“I know who you are.”
Does he have a smile on his face? Who the hell is this kid?
Carl felt a chill tingle down his spine.
“Ah, probably nothing to worry about, right?” The kid broke into an evil smirk. “I mean, who could possibly care after a hundred and fifty years?” He rang up the fee and Carl paid with his campus credit card.
He felt the clerk’s eyes on his back as he left the store. Carl raised his hand to adjust his bowtie and then discovered he had already removed it. He undid one more button on his shirt and rolled his shoulders.
Maybe I should have stayed for the second beer.
Walking back to his car relaxed him.
The cottage Carl lived in was part of the campus housing for single staff. But he would have chosen it on his own. He loved the cobblestoned entryway and random brick patterns on the outside walls covered with vines of ivy. The windows were small-paned in a crisscross pattern, like some of the thatched cottages in the Cotswold district he loved to visit in England. He could almost live the history he studied, as if, once stepping into the little dwelling, he was transported back in time.
The mailbox at his front door was nearly empty. He unlocked the heavy oak door and entered his domain, setting the book down on a steamer trunk that was his coffee table. The house was in need of a fire. He stoked it quickly and sat down on the brown leather couch, watching the flames take hold.
When he removed his tweed jacket he remembered his bowtie, which he carefully extricated, along with the folded index card with Molly’s number on it.
Molly, what would you look like here, on this couch by the fire? Would you let me unbutton your…
“Oh, God help me,” he muttered.
Perhaps it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman.
He wondered if he would even know what to do.
He stood up, kicked off his shoes and walked in his Argyle socks to the kitchen and poured himself a Scotch.
Now this is what I really wanted.
He poured himself another and took it over to the couch, setting the short glass next to the heavy book. The light of the fire danced on the dull dark green paint of the trunk, on the wooden stays and brass studs holding it together, and on the curled index card. He saw the numbers flickering as he leaned over and picked up the paper.
Without thinking, he retrieved his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and dialed her number. He leaned back into the soft leather and sighed, listening to the rings. He licked his lips and tasted the warm liquor residue there.
On the third ring, she picked up.
“Well, hello.”
Had she expected me really to call?
“I’ve read the book, and I…”
What was it he really wanted to say?
“I have something to do in the morning, and thought perhaps your suggestion of returning it to you tonight might work out better.” His exhale drew static on the line, but Molly was patient with her response.
“Okay.”
“Well, I don’t want to get you into trouble, you know, with the book and all.”
“No. We definitely don’t want me to get into trouble.”
Carl’s face flushed again. He’d always envisioned doing things to her in the stacks, but now he saw other possibilities.
“Well, I could…”
“Why don’t I come over?”
He had been holding his breath and released a sigh she no doubt heard. “That would be good. I think I will be up for a bit.”
There was a pause. Molly whispered into the phone, “Oh, I hope you’ll be up for more than a bit. I won’t make you wait long.” The phone went dead.
Should I call her back and cancel? Does she know where I live?
He looked at his cell phone keypad and almost hit redial to cancel. Was this sound judgment on his part?
But as he stood to hang up his jacket and put another log on the fire, the growing bulge in his pants was beginning to call all the shots.
Mollie’s bug rattled
up the driveway and abruptly stopped mid-sputter. Carl had brushed his teeth, reapplied aftershave, and changed his shirt. He opened the heavy front door and tried to stand casually in the doorframe. He could feel the warmth of the fireplace at his back. Molly’s red hair shone in the blue light of the streetlamp at the bottom of the driveway. As she walked to him, he could see her soft white cheeks, her moist red lips, and the hint of cleavage, covered demurely by her nylon jacket.
In one fluid motion she touched his chest with the mounds of her breasts, and even through their clothes he felt the heat of her body. He lowered his head and she met his lips with hers, parting them, giving him a tiny moan which melted deliciously in his mouth.