The Black Buccaneer - Chapter - 46

The sea was calm, but Henry’s mind was not. The Tempest cut through the waters like a blade, its black sails full of wind. Standing at the helm, Henry Creed—once Sirius Black, now feared and forgotten Captain Black—kept his eyes on the horizon, where the hills of Port Royal slowly rose from the ocean mist.

Morgan stood nearby, arms folded. “You really think it’s wise going back there?”

Henry didn’t look at him. “Port Royal is where the trouble began. And if the East India Company has their claws sunk into it, I want to see how deep they go.”

“You’re not going for Jack?”

Henry shook his head. “Jack always has a plan. He may act like a buffoon, but he’s a survivor. If Davy Jones is chasing him, Jack’s already two steps ahead. He doesn’t need rescuing… not yet.”

Morgan frowned. “And Elizabeth?”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Henry said, his voice quieter. “William told me she was imprisoned. If that’s true, the East India Company’s reach is longer than I thought. Port Royal may already be under their boot.”

As the ship neared the harbor, Henry changed into one of his merchant outfits—rich fabrics, silver buttons, but subdued enough not to raise suspicions. The name Henry Creed was still respected in Port Royal. And feared, by those who knew the shadow behind the name.

They docked by midday. The port was busy, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. More guards. New uniforms. Redcoats standing near every major building. And in the center of it all stood a large banner: Property of the East India Trading Company.

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “That’s not subtle.”

Henry stepped off the gangplank, boots clicking against the dock. “They never are.”

They made their way toward the governor’s mansion, passing merchants with guarded eyes and sailors whispering of new taxes and disappearing ships.

At the mansion gates, a guard stepped forward, musket in hand.

“Halt. State your business.”

Henry gave a disarming smile. “Henry Creed. Merchant. I have business with Governor Swann.”

The soldier eyed him, then motioned to another guard. “Governor Swann’s no longer in power. All inquiries go through Lord Beckett now.”

Henry’s smile didn’t falter. “Then I suppose I’ll need a word with Lord Beckett.”

“He doesn’t see just anyone.”

Henry leaned in, lowering his voice. “Tell him I bring information from Havana. About pirate movement near the Spanish territories.”

The guard hesitated, then nodded. “Wait here.”

As the soldier disappeared into the mansion, Morgan muttered, “You sure this is a good idea?”

“I’m sure this is the only way we’ll find out what happened to Elizabeth.”

Moments later, the door creaked open again.

“He’ll see you,” the guard said.

Henry adjusted his coat and followed.

Inside the mansion, everything smelled of parchment, polish, and power. And behind a polished desk, sipping tea with calculated calm, sat Lord Cutler Beckett.

“Mr. Creed,” he said, setting the cup down. “How unexpected. Havana must be quite dull these days if it brings you to my doorstep.”

Henry offered a polite nod. “Not dull. Just… concerning. Rumors of pirate fleets gathering near the Spanish colonies. I thought the Trading Company would want to know.”

Beckett gestured to a chair. “You’re not wrong. Pirate activity has… shifted recently. Though I imagine that’s not the only reason you’re here.”

Henry didn’t sit. “I heard troubling things about Elizabeth Swann.”

Beckett gave a faint smile. “Ah. So you’ve heard the rumors. Yes, she was in our custody. A regrettable misunderstanding involving her husband and a certain item.”

“And now?”

“Gone,” Beckett said simply. “Escaped from one of our estates. Stole a uniform. Disappeared into the wind.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “And you’ve made no effort to find her?”

Beckett leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Let her run. She’ll come back eventually. They always do when they realize how few friends they have left.”

Henry took a step closer. “If I find her first, I’ll see her safe. And you will not interfere.”

Beckett’s smile vanished. “And if I do?”

Henry’s eyes turned cold. “You will see.”

For a moment, the room was still. Then Beckett chuckled, masking the brief flicker of fear in his eyes.

“Port Royal is not what it used to be, Mr. Creed. Choose your threats wisely.”

“I never threaten,” Henry said, turning to leave. “I promise.”


As Henry Creed stepped out of Lord Beckett’s office, the warm breeze of Port Royal did little to soothe the storm behind his eyes. But he said nothing to Morgan—not yet. He walked in silence until they were far from the mansion, past the guard-post and around the bend of the cobbled path that overlooked the old governor’s estate.

Only then did Henry whisper, “He’s telling the truth.”

Morgan looked over, frowning. “What?”

“Beckett,” Henry said, his voice low. “I used magic on him. Subtle, quiet—just enough to catch fragments. I saw flashes. The man tied up in her bed. His dismissal. The news of her slipping away through the east gates. Beckett is angry, but not lying. She really escaped.”

Morgan raised a brow. “So she’s out there. Somewhere in the Caribbean?”

“Possibly,” Henry muttered. “But she left behind chaos. Beckett has every informer and patrol in Port Royal hunting for whispers of her. He’s not just embarrassed—he’s worried.”

Morgan scratched his beard. “What now?”

“We visit someone who cares more about her than Beckett ever will,” Henry said, setting off down the hill toward a once-familiar road. “Governor Swann.”

The governor’s estate hadn’t changed much. It sat in its walled gardens like a remnant of a gentler age—refined, respectable, and now overshadowed by the looming presence of the East India Trading Company. A pair of Beckett’s redcoats stood watch at the gate, but they recognized Henry Creed immediately and stepped aside without challenge.

Inside, the once-grand drawing room was quiet. Curtains were drawn half-closed, and dust had started to gather on the edges of furniture. And there, in a high-backed chair, sat Weatherby Swann—older, wearier, a man pulled thin by worry.

He stood when he saw Henry. “Henry…”

Henry bowed respectfully. “Governor.”

“You’ve heard, then,” Swann said quietly, his voice strained. “My daughter… she vanished. Disguised herself. Escaped. I— I don’t even know where she’s gone.”

“I know,” Henry replied gently. “That’s why I’m here.”

The governor’s eyes were bloodshot. “She’s out there somewhere, with pirates and scoundrels—perhaps looking for her husband, or Jack Sparrow… or worse.”

“She’s resourceful,” Henry said. “She always was. And if I know Elizabeth, she’s not lost. She has a purpose.”

Swann looked at him, searching. “Will you find her?”

“I’ll do more than that,” Henry said. “I’ll make sure she gets home. Safe, and free.”

Swann’s shoulders sank slightly, but there was a flicker of hope behind his eyes.

“Then may God guide your sails, Mr. Creed,” he whispered. “She means everything to me.”

Henry placed a hand gently on the old man’s shoulder. “She means something to all of us, Governor. I won’t fail her.”

The familiar gates of Creed Manor swung open with a gentle creak, welcoming its master home after many weeks at sea. The golden crest bearing the letter C shimmered faintly in the sunlight as Henry Creed stepped down from his carriage, his long coat trailing behind him, boots crunching over the stone path. Beside him walked Morgan, quiet and thoughtful, while a few of Henry's loyal sailors carried trunks behind them, nodding respectfully to the house staff gathered at the entrance.

From the manor’s archway emerged an older man, slightly hunched, silver hair swept neatly back, walking cane tapping the floor in rhythm.

“Master Creed,” he called, his voice gruff with age, but warm. “You’ve returned.”

Henry smiled faintly. “Old man Thomas. Still standing strong?”

Thomas let out a gravelly chuckle. “I’ve outlived two hurricanes and three housekeepers. I expect to be around for a few more summers at least.”

The two men clasped hands, briefly, before Thomas stepped aside to let Henry and Morgan enter the grand foyer of the manor. The place smelled of lemon polish and old books, just as Henry remembered. Everything was as it should be—his estate well-kept, his wealth untouched.

The rest was not so pleasant.

They retired to the study, where a decanter of wine waited by the fireplace. Thomas poured for them both and finally got to what weighed heavily on his mind.

“I reckon you’ll want to know what’s been happening while you were gone,” he said, lowering himself carefully into a leather chair.

Henry leaned back. “Start with the East India Company.”

Thomas nodded. “They’ve been tightening their grip, Master Creed. Port Royal’s not what it used to be. Ever since that Lord Beckett took his seat in the mansion, every ship that docks is taxed. Every barrel of rum or crate of silk gets inspected and levied. The people are restless.”

“Any trouble?” Morgan asked from the side.

Thomas smirked humorlessly. “You could say that. A few lads from the lower docks tried to poison Beckett’s wine at a banquet. Others laid traps on the roads. All failed, of course. Beckett’s not a fool—travels with twice the number of guards he did before. And he’s got eyes everywhere.”

Henry said nothing, swirling the wine in his glass. Thomas continued.

“There’s more. The estate you gave to young Turner—Beckett’s men seized it after Miss Elizabeth escaped. Said the property was under investigation. They put soldiers in it, taxed the tenants, and sent a message to the rest of us.” He looked up. “No one’s beyond the Company’s reach.”

Henry’s jaw tensed. “And my estate?”

“No one's touched it. Your reputation holds, sir. Beckett believes you’re in Havana, and the plantation reports keep his spies content. As far as they’re concerned, you’re the perfect noble merchant. Uninterested in politics.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Henry said, rising from his chair and walking toward the window that overlooked the garden.

Thomas watched him for a moment. “Still intend to keep your... other activities quiet?”

Henry turned slightly, a small smirk on his face. “It’s better for everyone if Henry Creed remains an upstanding gentleman.”

Thomas nodded. “Then rest here while you can. Your men look tired. And I’ll have your rooms prepared.”

As Morgan stepped out to organize the sailors’ quarters, Henry stayed at the window, looking over the distant hills. Somewhere beyond them, the storm of war, magic, and betrayal brewed. But here, for a brief time, the calm of Port Royal wrapped around him like an old cloak.

He had enemies. He had secrets. And he had a woman to find.

But tonight, he had a bed, a roof, and the illusion of peace.


The moon hung high above Port Royal, casting silver light over the quiet streets. The manor of the East India Company stood tall and cold, its windows dark but guarded, its gates locked under the eyes of uniformed men. They carried muskets and blades and walked their patrols with practiced discipline. None of them saw the shimmer of air near the outer wall, nor the silent flicker of displacement magic that bent the world for just a moment.

Henry Creed stood now inside the manor grounds.

He moved like a shadow cloaked in stillness, a soft shimmer cloaking him—the Notice-Me-Not charm worked like a veil draped across his presence. Eyes would glance past him, ears would not hear his footsteps. He was more suggestion than man now, an idea lost between torchlight and the wind.

He stepped through the front doors, which swung inward with a whispered creak. Inside, the manor was as cold as Beckett's reputation. Paintings of maps and conquered colonies adorned the walls. Everything reeked of gold, greed, and control.

Henry muttered under his breath, wand in hand.
“Compulso.”
The Compulsion Charm swept through the manor like a breeze. The guards yawned, stretched, then wandered away from their posts, compelled by some sudden forgetfulness. Footsteps echoed down empty halls as Henry climbed the stairwell toward the upper floor, toward the room where the puppet-master of Port Royal slept.

Lord Cutler Beckett’s bedchamber was large, decorated in fine velvet and polished wood. A single lantern burned low in the far corner, casting long shadows across the room. On the bed lay Beckett, curled on his side, one arm tucked under a silk pillow, chest rising and falling in perfect serenity.

Henry stood at the threshold and watched him sleep for a long moment.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, three slender knives appeared in his palm—small, sharp, and perfectly balanced. One by one, he raised them.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Three steel points buried deep into the second pillow, not a foot from Beckett’s head.

Pinned beneath one of the knife handles was a folded parchment. Henry stepped back into the shadows.

The paper read in crisp, slanted handwriting:

“You sleep lightly. But not lightly enough.
The estate you have taken from the Turners was never yours to touch.
The next time I come, I will not aim for the pillow.
Leave it. Or be buried in it.”

It bore no name. But Henry had dipped the edge of the parchment in his own cologne—an imported clove-based blend. The same scent Beckett had once complimented during a meeting. There would be no mistaking who had sent the message.

At the edge of Port Royal, on a moonlit hill above the harbor, Henry stood watching as lights flared in the Company manor.

Morgan approached from behind, having waited at the rendezvous.

“Did he read the letter?”

Henry didn’t take his eyes off the manor. “He will, mostly likely tomorrow.”

Morgan nodded. “Time to find the girl?”

Henry turned. “Yes. Let’s go find Elizabeth.”

And with that, they descended toward the port, toward the ship, toward the next storm that waited beyond the horizon.