Treasure's Worth

“Captain.”

The man so called looked up. The huge black man – his first mate, that is – grinned mirthlessly and sidled up. His glossy skin glowed in the bad light of the waterfront dive where his captain had arranged to meet him tonight.

“Did you get it?” his captain asked in a low voice. The white hood concealed half of his face. The first mate, however, did not have to see his face to know the intensity of this man who commanded his loyalty and more besides. The Captain was a fair man – by pirate standards. He took care of his crew, was loathe to lose a man to stupidity and shared rewards and losses equally.

“Aye,” Adawale replied, tapping his finger on the dirty scrap of paper on the cracked bar counter. This was one of the lowest dives on this god forsaken island. The sooner they were off it, the better. The map would help to achieve that all the sooner. “The German is out – like a light. He never knew what hit him.”

A quick smile from his Captain, a man of rare emotional display. Yet another reason to respect him. He never cracked under pressure, no matter how tight the situation got.
“Good. Then we'd best get our men before they lose all their money and more besides,” the Captain said with a thick Welsh accent softened by the rough pirate's dialect he'd taken to. “If this map is right, the treasure we seek is enough to repair the Jackdaw and retire on.”

“Ah, is that what you plan to do, Captain?” Adawale asked, his eyes glinting with humour. “You want to leave us poor sea besotted dogs all to the dangers of the world.”
“O no,” the Captain laughed, smacking his first mate on the meaty shoulder. “Far from it. I'd rather get it before the competition does.”

Adawale's face darkened. “The Frenchman – that is who you're thinking of.”

“Aye, the stinking French bataille,” the blond-haired man growled, his blue-green eyes flashing. At a dark look on his first mate's face, the Captain sobered. “What is it? You smell a fish?”

Adawale looked away at the noisy tavern where fights were endemic and whores a pandemic. The smell in this place would have driven an honest man out long ago. But then, none of the clientele here were honest men – well, except maybe his Captain.
“A coincidence, Captain? That just when we need money, suddenly this German shows up – and with a map no less?”

The blond pirate pursed his lips and rubbed his stubbled chin. “You may be right,” he conceded. “But, when has a bit of competition ever stopped us, eh?”

Adawale grinned in spite of himself. He was not afraid in the least. The life of a pirate was always a nervous one, stumbling from one job to the next: racketeering to outright murder. Fear was not a part of their lives. Not of his life. Not since he'd ceased to be a slave thanks to the blond man who now led him past the sprawled unconscious and rutting humanity in the tavern. He would never forget that day or the offer of a new life with the blond pirate. He was grateful and would follow his saviour anywhere, even to hell which would probably spit them both back out anyway.


The Jackdaw swayed at anchor, quiet and unremarkable. Her rigging was torn in places and the sides of her hull had holes that had been hastily patched. She really needed a full makeover, the Captain reflected patting the battered wheel. The wood had been worn smooth by his hands over the years, saturated with his sweat and sometimes blood. He could detect the old stains from his first days as captain under Blackbeard's tutelage. The thought of his old mentor and friend sent a chuckle up from his slender chest. He was not the biggest man of his crew – that honour went to his first mate. He was a  smaller man, quicker of reflex than most – and armed to the teeth, literally. As the crew prepared to cast off and the timbers of the ship groaned with the strain of the picking wind, he checked his four pistols – two tucked into his chest holster and two at his back. The two swords swung gently at his sides with the sway of the ship as she cleared the port. He ran no flag, swinging the tiller over hard to starboard. No sense announcing his intent in the dark. You never knew who was watching. A sharp eyed lookout who could not sleep might ruin all his plans.

Feeling the wind pick up more, he raised his head to the sky. The stars shone like tiny pinpricks of light amid the scudding clouds. No moon tonight, not yet anyway. The sea was quiet – as tranquil as it ever got. The water whispered along the hull, the waves breaking on the prow. The Jackdaw would have flown if not for the damage taken in the last raid on Port Royal where a British man of war had suddenly appeared, ambushing them and running them out of the harbour. That galled but he had decided to cut his losses. He'd rather loot another treasure another day than sacrifice the lives of his crew or his ship needlessly. He was reckless but not stupid. Idiots did not last long out here. They ended up dead faster than a harpooned whale.


It was midmorning before they reached their destination, a small desolate island. A beach and some palms according to the crow's nest lookout. They were still too far to really see anything. In his experience islands in the Caribbean could be very deceptive, presenting one vista to the naked eye but then turning into something different once you took a closer look.

The reefs surrounding the island prevented a very near docking so the captain decided to take a boat and come in closer. As the boat was being lowered, the first mate, staring into the distance, grunted and frowned. He touched his captain's shoulder and pointed into the distance.

“Competition,” the Captain muttered, the looking glass pressed to his eye. He folded the tube and handed it off to the first mate in whose huge hands it looked as fragile as a baby. “Watch them. Have the cannon on high alert. Do nothing unless they attack.”

“Aye, Captain,” Adawale said, unease deepening his scowl. This whole adventure did not sit well with him. It smelled like a set up. He had told as much to the Captain who had shrugged and went on with his plan. Not much could stop the brave pirate from his course. He was as stubborn as the rest of them when it came to the jobs he took on.

“You still think this is a trap?” the Captain asked as if reading his mind.

“Could this be a coincidence?” the first mate asked, jerking his head at the dark blot of the ship in the distance.

“Probably not,” the Captain admitted, blowing air through his lips. “As I said, be alert. I will return as soon as I retrieve the treasure.” The map rested safely in the pocket of his coat. It was not that he mistrusted his men, far from it. Better, however, to be safe than sorry. One man alone had a better chance of surviving with the map than a whole ship trying to guard it. Moreover, he needed it. The path to the treasure – the nature of which he did not know but could guess: gold bullion most likely – the path was a complicated one. Several features were to be found naturally he guessed from studying the scrap of parchment. They had been drawn very carefully by whoever had made it. He had learned the hard way to pay attention to such details. For a pirate, an unfound treasure could mean the difference between eating well and starving for the season. Rum was the pirate's staple. No gold, no rum. No rum, no crew. No crew, no ship. No ship, no pirate. Simple as that.


The island was not big but not flat either. He had to clamber over rock, sweating in his leathers. He was grateful for the hood that protected his head from the Caribbean sun. Sunstroke was not something he needed at the moment. The map directed him along the cliffside path, a narrow trek no wider than a wooden board. He had to edge carefully to avoid falling. The wind was brisk up here. He did not wish to be blown off into the sparking turquoise water of the sea. He could swim, yes, but would rather not be soaked or have his pistols rendered useless. Purchasing new ones would be a nuisance and a strain on his already limited resources.

With a grunt he pulled himself up onto the cliff above and looked around. A bare patch of rock, no trees, no grass. Nothing to indicate that this was an entrance to a cave in fact. Yet the map showed the way here. He cast about, looking for cracks, discolourations, anything that might lead him to the treasure cave. He wiped his streaming face. The sun was at its hottest and the rock reflected the heat all around. Gulls screeched overhead, grating on his ears.

He stomped along the top of the cliff, hoping for a hollow space somewhere or loose rock. Nothing. He growled a potent curse in frustration. Was the map false? That was not the first time he'd thought it. Adawale's suspicions had taken root in his mind. A pirate that did not think for himself, that did not question everything, died real quick. The blond pirate was not such a fool – then why had he taken this map at face value? Had he been so desperate for something to do? Had he been ready to sacrifice his men, his ship, for a bit of gain in these hard times? He snorted. No, he was no fool.

His eye fell on the ship, his ship, below in the water. From up here he could not tell if anyone was moving aboard her. That did not matter. He knew his crew were not idle, not with the other ship prowling about. With that thought he sought out the other ship and found her rather closer to the Jackdaw than he really wanted. He squinted, the wind fluttering his robes and hood. Pushing some of the long blond hair out of his face, he pursed his lips. He had to agree with his first mate: he did not like the fact that another ship was here. Just how many maps had there been? A rather uncomfortable question.
Shaking his head, the pirate turned back to exploring the cliff. He examined the map again, to make sure he'd not missed anything. No, he'd found the split in the rock, and the narrow red coloured ledge. Even the skeleton had been in place to point him here. So what was he missing?

A sharp crack drew his attention back to the ship at anchor. That had been no snap of the rigging or a rock banging somewhere. That had been a cannon blast. Sure enough, his eye caught the smoke from the broadside of the other ship.

“Son of a bitch,” the pirate swore, tucking the map inside his coat and heading off the cliff. The treasure could wait. This was his ship at stake, his crew. Adawale was capable of handling this on his own but the suspicion now became a certainty: the map was a fake, they had been set up. The Jackdaw had been lured here, deliberately. But by who?

The blond pirate had many enemies – every other pirate captain, in fact, wanted his head on a mast and the Jackdaw in their fleet. What galled most was that neither the captain nor the ship were in their possession – yet. Only a few pirates had enough clout and power to damage his plans and his ship. So, which one was here then? It appeared that the competition was here all by himself, no back up. He must really think he was something special to take on the Jackdaw and its captain all alone. Coming half way down, the Captain again squinted out at the ships now firing broadsides at one another further out. The Jackdaw, smaller and so easier to manoeuvre, was running circles around the three masted caravel of the other pirate. That the attacker was a pirate there was little doubt: they'd been arrogant enough to run up the black flag of Jolly Roger, the skull and the bones gleaming white in the harsh sunlight. Such arrogance had been the downfall of many a pirate captain.

Grinning tightly, the lone pirate on the island made his way all the way down to the beach. The two ships were far out but the boat was still here, waiting for him. The fact that the attacker had either missed it or had not bothered with it spoke volumes about the captain's ability. Now that he was down, however, the lines of the caravel looked rather familiar. Could it be the Frenchman? Or was someone playing games?

The men in the boat greeted him quietly, worried about their mates back on the Jackdaw. He ordered them to get as close to the enemy ship as they could. The men obeyed instantly, sly grins on their faces. The captain had a plan, they knew it – some devil's dare that had made the name of Edward Kenway resonate all over the Spanish main and beyond.

In the distance the Jackdaw and the Frenchman were still circling one another like two curs on the street, growling and snapping. The smoke obscured most of the action but very soon that did not matter. Cannon balls began hitting the water close to the boat. The captain ordered them to veer off. Leaving the pistols – he would not risk wetting the powder – Edward Kenway leapt off into the water and swam closer, certain that his orders would be obeyed. He did not have to look back to know that the boat was already backing off to the island and safety.

A few times he had to reverse direction as more cannon balls fell all around him. Chain shot and round shot mostly. One of the ships was attempting to de-mast the other, a regular tactic to slow the ship down, disable her and board her. The noise of the battle was muted under the water. When he was as close as he'd dare to come, Edward Kenway swam for the surface. His head broke the water just hear the aft part of the ship. No ropes here to help him up. That did not matter. The Frenchman's ship was not in very good condition. The wood was uneven, giving plenty of handholds which the blond pirate now utilized to clamber up close to the aft deck and peer over the gunwale.

The ship shuddered with the discharge of the cannon, the vibration almost sending him off into the water. He slipped sideways to grab hold of loose rigging and pull himself up. No one noticed him, busy watching the Jackdaw getting further away. Trusting his first mate to engage the Frenchman's attention, the blond pirate climbed up to the centre mast where the crow's nest sat. Two men were there. One yelled something in French but no one heard him in the din of the battle. As the blond Welshman cut the first screaming man down with a sharp stab of the hidden blade, the second one managed to nick him on the shoulder with a knife. For that he had his wrist broken and his neck smashed into the edge of the nest's wall. He gasped in pain, and then Edward took hold of the sides of his head and twisted sharply breaking his neck. Limply the second lookout slid to the floor, dead.

Not wasting any more time, the blond pirate gazed out over the nest onto the deck of the Frenchman. The captain. Where was the French captain? Kill him and the rest would surrender. No pirate crew fought past their captain's death. The captain held his crew together so long as he delivered plunder and managed not to kill them all. This one was aching for revenge – a pointless exercise. He was not so good as he thought. He'd let his emotions cloud his judgement. Now, he would have to pay.

Slipping into a trance – Eagle Vision, he'd heard it called, a special ability that few knew about – he scanned the deck of the ship and located the captain near the prow, his first mate beside him. The tall thin Frenchman wore blue, a concession to his country's banner. The ship shivered again, up here the vibration a little less with the distance. How to get closer to the yelling Frenchman? The rigging would help certainly but he would need something solid to rest on to launch his attack.

A cannon ball flew close to the underside of the crow's nest, a signal to get moving. A standing target was a dead one. He glanced out at the Jackdaw. She was coming head on, preparing to ram the bigger ship. He could just make out holes in her hull – new ones. His lips muttered imprecations against the Frenchman and his first mate. If between them they destroyed his ship.... come hell or high water, they would pay so much they'd have less than skin left afterwards. If there was anything in this world that Edward Kenway could claim to love, it was his ship. She'd seen him through thick and thin. He was not about to lose her to some cock of a Frenchman.

With that in mind, he cut a piece of rigging and used it to zip-line to the foremast. Without even slowing down, let alone conscious thought, he dropped down onto the deck right in front of the startled French pirate, whose mouth hung open on an order that he never delivered.

“Kenway!” he spat. “You whore's son!”

The blond pirate grinned mirthlessly, his sabres whistling out and dispatching the two men close to the French pirate in less time than it took to load another cannon. No one had so much as blinked. The two men died with surprise written all over their faces.

“Now,” Edward Kenway said coldly. “Your turn.”

There was a breathless pause – more cannons discharged but neither man flinched, the others too busy with the Jackdaw that now was really close. Then with a shrill scream the French pirate leapt at him. Edward dodged him easily, kicking his backside in contempt. Just then, the Jackdaw reached the larger ship. Wood groaned as the Frenchman's ship shuddered with the impact. Men fell, screaming and scrambling to get away from the wreckage that had been the starboard side of the ship moments before. Something gave in the hull and the ship listed. The blond pirate, knocked off his feet, skidded on the listing deck, sabres tumbling from his hands. He cursed as the edge of the now cracked hull came into view – no sign of the French pirate captain in all this mess. A rope fluttered near his hand and he grabbed it, pulling himself up hand over hand. The rope tautened with his weight. He found himself swinging out over the churning water. Barrels, broken pieces of wood, crates and bodies were floating underneath. Sparing it all barely a glance – he'd seen this many times before – he hauled himself up again. The damaged ship listed more as the Jackdaw attempted to disengage and gain some distance. The rigging of the two ships had become tangled, however, and neither could move. A dangerous situation with one ship sinking – it could potentially take the other one down with it.
“Do not lose my ship,” Edward growled in the direction of the Jackdaw. Above him, a mast splintered and the ship swayed, shaking so hard that the blond pirate had to stop in order not to be shaken off the rope. To be ground to dog meat between two ships was not his idea of a pleasant afternoon.

“English dog!” someone shouted from too close by. He raised his head: the French pirate was smirking at him, a pistol pointed in his direction, at his face if truth were told. Not even thinking or giving away his intent, the Welsh born pirate made one last effort and rolled onto the pitching deck. Letting go of the rope he threw himself at the startled Frenchman whose gun fired but missed his target altogether. Losing his nerve he retreated past the corpses of his men, past the crawling wounded. Edward stalked him, no emotion on his face but a rage threatening to explode in his chest. This was when he was at his most dangerous. His rage burned cold, unlike many men whose anger was a hot one that exploded like a powder keg spraying everyone and everything. The Welshman's fury was a quieter kind but no less intense for that. He nurtured his rage, allowing it to fuel his determination, controlling it tightly until the proper moment. This was a proper moment, one of many he'd had over the years of sailing the pirate waters. That this snivelling treacherous Frenchman would dare to set him up, to lay a trap for him – that was unconscionable. It had to be dealt with. No one insulted Edward Kenway and got away with it. No one.

Finally, backed into a corner, bereft of aid, alone, the French captain turned at bay. His sword came at the stalking wolf like Welshman with deadly accuracy but he was too slow. The blond pirate had his measure and did not hesitate to use it. With one arm blocking the incoming sweep he stabbed with the other at the unprotected side. The Frenchman sensing danger tried to twist away, to reverse his committed strike – too late. The hidden blade, an interesting weapon given to Kenway by his allies, sunk into the quivering flesh with remarkable ease. The tall pirate stiffened, standing still on his tiptoes. He sighed, his sword clattering to the canting deck and sliding off into the churning water. He tried to speak but nothing came out past the sudden blockage in his throat. Edward Kenway watched him die, lowering him carefully to the deck. The ship groaned like a woman in labour. He heard water sloshing too close to his feet for comfort. It was time to leave.

“It was a pleasure to know you, Monsieur Capitan,” he said to the dead man wiping his hidden blade on the rich cloth of the doublet. “I do hope we do not meet again this side of hell.”


“There was no treasure. The map was false.”

Adawale grunted, not willing to say 'i told you so' to his captain. He sipped his rum staring out over the docks where ships bobbed at anchor. The repairs on the Jackdaw were proceeding apace, courtesy of the dead French pirate's treasures some of which they'd recovered from the wreck. He raised his dirty mug in salute to the dead man. His captain chuckled beside him.

“Yes, our dead comrade certainly did one good deed in his life – bequeath us his money,” he opined, his voice slightly slurred by the many mugs of rum he'd allowed himself to drink.

“It is certainly being put to better use – instead of buying cheap wine and cheaper whores, our lady over there is getting prettified,” his first mate agreed.

“Aye,” Edward Kenway growled. “She is a beaut, no mistake. Faithful too.”

Adawale snorted, glancing sideways at his captain. The last thing Edward Kenway was is faithful – to his men, yes, to his ship, yes, to his enemies, yes. To everyone else – no. As far as Adawale knew, his captain could bed a different woman every night and break every single promise he'd made to any female he'd ever met. He did not set much stock by such promises, especially not to whores who did not expect faithfulness either. There had been rumours though that Kenway had had a wife at some point. She'd gotten tired of his philandering and finally had left him. His captain was not a bad looking man in fact. Women gravitated to him like a magnet. He did not actively seek them out. His pirate's life drew him much more than any woman could. Perhaps that was really why his wife had left him. Be it as it may, Adawale thought, he was happy to serve with such a captain who feared no one and no thing. His courage was a byword. Many wanted to sail with him but Kenway was choosy. He wanted men he could trust with his very life. His crew had proven themselves over and over. He knew his men and they knew him.

To sail under the black flag with Edward Kenway was an honour that few would like to miss and it was harder to gain still.

“So, what now, Captain?” Adawale asked smacking his lips. “Where do we go next?”

“I heard a rumour,” Edward Kenway replied after a short silence. “A rumour of a black ship – hull, sails, rigging, the works – all black. Blackbeard thinks it's just a story.”

“And you think different?” Adawale asked. He knew of such a story. A black ship crewed by the damned – the Flying Dutchman it was called. Or had it? He sighed gustily dismissing the thought. Whatever the name, it sounded insane and dangerous. Exactly the kind of thing his captain liked to take up.

“I do not know what to think,” his captain said spitting through his teeth. He slapped the empty mug on the table. “No more drink for me this night. I need my wits about me if we are to catch this black ship.”

“Why would you want to?”

Edward Kenway turned to regard him, his blue-green eyes twinkling in the orange light of the street lamps.

“Because it is a prize worth of the black flag, Adawale. And no set up,” he added smirking.

He stood up, steady on his feet despite all the rum he'd had and headed off, wishing his mate a good night. He would sleep on the Jackdaw, soothed by the gentle sway of the ship at anchor. The heaving of the deck did not bother him. Seasickness had not been a problem in fact – a sign that he was made for maritime life and no other. Here, he made the rules and no one told him what to do or when or how. He made the choices. He was in control. In that he agreed with his allies.

In his cabin he undid the hidden blades from his forearms and regarded them in the light of the single candle on the table. His allies, the Assassins, had given him these. They thought he was one of them – perhaps, on some level, he was an Assassin. But first and foremost he was Edward Kenway, a pirate and a man who made his own way defying every restriction and constraint that others had tried to place on him. The Creed in truth said exactly that: Nothing is True and Everything is Permitted. All his life he'd questioned the status quo, wondered how was it that some prospered without working for it and others who'd worked hard gained nothing. That was injustice. Not the kind of life he'd wanted. His goal was to make something of himself, to raise above his bloodlines, to prove to himself and others that a man could be anything he wished so long as he was brave and ambitious enough. Selfish enough. He sniffed in the semi dark. Aye, selfish – not something the Assassins agreed with. Idealists, the lot of them. They did not see that in his life you had to take what was yours or see it stolen and die for it.

A pirate's life was free of encumbrance of control. He had taken charge of his destiny, of his life and he was not about to give it up. He would use any means to achieve his goals: he would die rich, famous – if not respected. Respect was not the main ingredient in his dish of life. He would end his life knowing that he'd done something meaningful with it. Perhaps not meaningful in the Assassins' view but that did not matter. What was important is how he perceived himself and his actions. The others' thoughts were irrelevant. He'd never made his life based on what others thought. He had learned to fend for himself and would continue to do so until the end.

The simple truth was: Edward Kenway bowed to no man, to no idea did he owe allegiance. Edward Kenway was a pirate who sailed under the black flag and dared to defy the world.