The Black Buccaneer - Chapter - 45

Elizabeth sat alone on a barrel under the half-moon glow, her sailor’s hat pulled low over her brow. The waves lapped steadily against The Sea Wren's hull, but the air above deck felt unusually tense. It had been a day since someone discovered her hidden gown tucked away behind a crate in the hold—and now the crew was restless.

Whispers were spreading fast.

"You really think there's a lass aboard?" muttered one sailor, leaning on the rail.

"Aye," said another, eyes darting. "Found a silk dress in the hold. Lace and all. No way that belongs to a sailor."

Elizabeth knew she was running out of time. She had counted on blending in, working quietly, staying low. But with the discovery of that dress, suspicion was thick as smoke in the galley. If they found out the truth… she shivered.

That evening, as the crew gathered near the galley fire, passing around a battered flask of rum and roasted salt pork, Elizabeth—still posing as “Eli”—stood up.

“Lads,” she called out, voice roughened to match theirs. “You’ve all been talkin’ about that dress, aye?”

The men looked up, some curious, others amused.

“I reckon you lot don’t know the truth about this ship,” she continued, letting her voice drop into a whisper, just loud enough for all to hear. “This ship’s cursed.”

A few laughed nervously, but she pressed on, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone.

“You ever wonder why this old hulk runs so smooth despite her age? Why the wind always seems to favor her? That’s because she’s haunted.”

“Haunted?” Tom, the sailor she’d first spoken to, raised an eyebrow.

Elizabeth nodded slowly. “There was a woman once aboard this ship. A stowaway. She fell in love with the captain, or so they say. But the sea wasn’t kind. There was a storm, a fight… no one really knows. But she vanished. Drowned, they reckon.”

She leaned in closer. “That dress you found? Hers.”

A silence fell over the gathered men. The only sound was the creaking of the rigging and the gentle hiss of the sea breeze.

“She still walks these decks, they say,” Elizabeth whispered. “Looking for her lover. Crying in the wind. Sometimes, at night, she walks past your hammocks. You might feel a chill... or see a figure in white just out the corner of your eye.”

One of the younger sailors dropped his fork. “You're makin’ that up,” he said, though his voice trembled.

Elizabeth let a ghostly smile creep over her lips. “Am I? Ask the first mate. He said he saw something last night near the bow.”

The first mate, a grizzled man missing three fingers, turned pale. “I—I thought that was a trick of the light.”

Elizabeth simply sat down again, letting the silence do the rest.

By the end of the night, the entire crew was jumpy. No one dared venture into the hold alone. Talk of the dress turned into hushed tales of the ghost woman. Her plan was working—at least for now.

Tom caught up with her as she scrubbed the deck the next morning. “You know, you’re a strange one, Eli. Always keepin’ to yourself, and now spinnin’ ghost tales.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Keeps people from pokin’ their noses where they don’t belong.”

Tom grinned. “Well, you’ve certainly spooked the lot. You’d make a fine bard, if you ever tire of the sea.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, gripping the mop tighter.

Below deck, Elizabeth crouched in the shadows near the galley door, the scent of salted pork and tar thick in the air. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop—but the moment she heard the raised voices of Captain Dorrell and his first mate, she paused, heart pounding.

"I'm tellin' you, Joseph, we can't afford to stop at Nassau or Kingston anymore!" the first mate hissed, voice tight with frustration. "The East India Company’s men are stationed everywhere, demanding fees for every bloody barrel of water and pound of salt meat. They’re choking us dry!"

Captain Dorrell’s voice thundered in return. “So your grand plan is to sail into Tortuga? That festering cesspit of drunkards and thieves? No, Mr. Langley. We’ll not turn respectable merchantmen into pirate bait.”

“But we’re already bleeding coin, sir!” Langley barked. “You want the men to mutiny when there’s no food left? No fresh powder or rum? We’ll find ourselves dead in the water before reaching England!”

Elizabeth pulled back, heart racing. The East India Company had already captured William and branded her a fugitive. She knew firsthand the Company’s reach was growing faster than anyone had expected, tightening its grip over every trade route, every port.

Tortuga may be lawless, but it was still free. And freedom was exactly what she needed.

She slipped away quietly, formulating her plan.

That night, when the crew gathered on deck for their evening meal, Elizabeth—still dressed as "Eli" the cabin boy—approached the table where several sailors sat muttering about rations and the growing tension between the officers.

“I couldn’t help overhearing something earlier,” Elizabeth said, voice low and casual. “You lot worried about portin’ soon?”

One of the older sailors, Briggs, grunted. “Captain says we’re to make for Kingston or Nassau. But the way things are goin’, we’ll have nothin’ left by then but biscuit crumbs and salt air.”

“I hear Tortuga’s still open,” Elizabeth offered, carefully watching their faces. “No East India Company guards. No fees. Just honest trade—well, mostly honest.”

“Ha! Honest, they says!” one laughed. “Tortuga’s a den of devils.”

“Maybe so,” Elizabeth agreed, “but devils don’t charge for water and bread. And they don’t put your captain in irons just for missin’ a customs stamp.”

The men fell silent, considering.

“Suppose you’ve been there?” Briggs asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Aye,” Elizabeth lied smoothly. “Once or twice. Long ago. You keep your wits about you, and no worse than any other port.”


In the dead of night, with only the soft creak of the hull and the occasional slap of waves against the side of the ship, Elizabeth crept silently across the deck. Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest, but her hands were steady as she worked.

She had been preparing this moment for days. The gown—once hers, now infamous among the crew as belonging to a ghost—had been transformed into a puppet. Stitched, stuffed with scraps, and balanced carefully with fishing line, she hoisted it from the crow’s nest, controlling it from above with lines fed through the mast and tied to pulleys she had fixed herself. It was crude, but in the darkness, with a bit of wind, it would do exactly what she needed.

She had also soaked strands of rope in rum earlier that day, arranging them in a careful, winding script across the deck: TORTUGA.

Now, everything was ready.

Elizabeth slipped silently up the rigging, climbing high into the bird’s nest, her breath cold and shallow in the midnight air. Below, the deck was quiet. Some men were on night watch, dozing on their feet. Others slept below, tossing in hammocks. She waited until the moon slipped behind a cloud—and then, she gave the first tug.

The gown swayed forward.

The wind helped. It caught the fabric and made the ghostly shape flutter. The gown floated, twisted in the moonlight—eerily slow and smooth—before pointing its sleeve dramatically to the southwest, toward the horizon. Toward Tortuga.

A shout broke the silence.

"Bloody hell! It’s the ghost! She’s back!" one of the younger deckhands screamed, stumbling backward.

"The ghost points!" another whispered, eyes wide in terror. "She’s showin’ us the way!"

The crew scrambled onto the deck. Men tripped over barrels, others clutched crucifixes to their chests. The legend Elizabeth had been carefully feeding them for days had finally taken full shape.

Captain Dorrell stormed onto the deck, eyes narrowed, but even he froze when he saw the floating gown—twisting in the wind with a will of its own, high above the deck, as if suspended by unseen hands.

And then Elizabeth struck the final chord.

Then, with a match stolen from the galley, she struck flame to the soaked rope.

The letters blazed to life—TORTUGA—burning like fire on the planks of the deck, glowing red in the darkness. Men gasped, staggered back, one even fell to his knees.

“The ghost wants us to go to Tortuga!” someone cried.

Captain Dorrell stared at the message, his lips parted, his face pale.

And then, the decision was made.

“...Set course for Tortuga,” the captain muttered, voice hollow.

A cheer rose from the crew—half in fear, half in excitement. Elizabeth, still hidden in the crow’s nest, allowed herself a quiet grin.

She’d steered the ship in the direction she wanted.

The moment the merchant vessel docked at Tortuga, Elizabeth didn’t even wait for the gangplank to be fully lowered. As the others filtered onto the port, she slipped into the throng, pulled her cap low over her brow, and vanished into the sea of noise and chaos that was the pirate city.

Tortuga had not changed.

The streets were loud with drunken laughter and the clang of metal on stone. The scent of rum, sweat, sea-salt, and gunpowder clung to the air like fog. Elizabeth moved with purpose, ducking between sailors and wenches, weaving through shadows. She had been here before—disguised, desperate, and bold. She knew where to go.

She arrived at a narrow shop squeezed between two brothels. The wooden sign above read The One-Eyed Sailor’s Trade. Inside, behind a curtain of beads, sat a wrinkled, toothless man with an eye patch and a long grey beard. He was lazily carving notches into a whale-bone dagger.

Elizabeth approached the counter and leaned in close. “I need information,” she whispered.

The man didn’t even look up. “Everyone does, love. The price depends on how juicy.”

“I’m looking for Jack Sparrow.”

That made him pause. He looked up slowly, his one eye narrowing. “What makes you think I know where that cockroach crawls?”

Without a word, Elizabeth reached into her coat and pulled out a coin. Not just any coin—an Edward Coyle, old and heavy, stamped with the crest of a long-fallen pirate lord. The old man’s eyes widened.

“Where did you get—?”

She slid it across the table. “Where is he?”

The man’s lips curled into a yellowed grin. “He’s in town. Lost a few crew in a spat with the East India dogs. He’s recruiting... or trying to, anyway. Down at the Drunken Jester, back of the docks.”

Elizabeth nodded once. “Thanks.”

He called out as she turned. “Watch yourself, lass. He’s not the only one with knives out in this town.”

When Elizabeth arrived at the Drunken Jester, the tavern was in full chaos.

Tables were overturned. Bottles shattered against the walls. Two men were wrestling in the corner, one trying to bite the other’s ear off. A woman leapt onto a table with a broken chair leg and roared like a banshee, knocking sailors back with every swing. The bartender ducked behind the counter, already bleeding from the forehead.

And in the middle of it all—Jack Sparrow sat on top of the bar, sipping rum, legs crossed, a half-filled application sheet in his hand and a quill behind one ear.

“Next!” he called out cheerfully, dodging a flying tankard.

Elizabeth crossed her arms, sighing. “Of course. Typical.”

The brawl surged like a tide through the tavern, fists and chairs flying in every direction. Elizabeth ducked a punch, rolled beneath a swinging lamp, and froze when she spotted him—Commander James Norrington.

Or, at least, what was left of him.

He was barely recognizable. His once-pristine naval coat was ripped and stained, his white cravat now just a frayed strip. His face had the wear of too many bottles and too many bad nights, but the pride hadn’t fully left his eyes. He stood in the center of a circle of pirates who had clearly recognized him, all eager to land a blow on the former commodore who had once hunted them.

“Traitor to the Navy!” someone shouted.
“Thinks he’s still better than us!”
“Let’s hang him with his cravat!”

Elizabeth didn’t think.

She elbowed a thick pirate in the gut, grabbed a rum bottle from the nearest table, and shoved her way toward Norrington. One of the pirates tried to grab her arm, and she twisted around, using his momentum to throw him into another brawler. With a final push, she reached James.

He turned just in time to see her face—and the bottle.

She smashed it over his head.

The crowd went wild.

“Oi! She got him good!”
“She’s one of us!”
“That’s how it’s done!”

Elizabeth raised her voice. “I’ve been tracking this bastard for weeks. He’s mine.”

The pirates laughed, cheered, and patted her on the back. A couple even offered her drinks. As they hauled Norrington’s unconscious form toward the tavern’s large storage pen—where half a dozen bloody-nosed prisoners already lay in a heap—Elizabeth kept close, making sure they didn’t rough him up too badly.

She cast a quick glance toward the bar.

Jack Sparrow was gone.

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath. “Slippery bastard.”

One of the pirates nudged her with a grin. “You’ve got a good arm, miss. You ever consider joining a crew?”

Elizabeth forced a smile. “I’ve sailed worse waters.”

As the pirates returned to their brawling, she slipped around the pen and crouched beside Norrington’s slumped form. “You better be worth the trouble,” she murmured.

And as she checked for his pulse, still strong beneath the bruise blooming on his temple, she couldn’t help but sigh.

“Tortuga,” she said. “Never boring.”