The Cardinal Pirate

Synopsis:

“I am dead, may the Lord have mercy on my wretched soul and forgive me my many sins. I did what I had to do.”

So begins “The Cardinal Pirate”, the sequel to “Surfing Treasure’s Wake”.

In “The Cardinal Pirate”, seventeen year old Marc is again joined by Jesus and Bob as they discover the diary of Estabon Cervantas who in 1565 joined with Admiral Menendez, the founder of St. Augustine, to drive the French Huguenots from north Florida and massacre the Frenchman Jene Ribault and three hundred and fifty of his men at what is now Fort Matanzas.

Recounting this horrific event, Estabon writes in his diary, “When this righteous act was complete, the once light brown sandy inlet was soaked with heretic blood. Only the footprints of our men across this bloody spit revealed the bright golden purified sand beneath.”

Together all three try to discover Estabon’s secret treasure as he recounts in his diary how and why he was forced into a life of violence and piracy on the high seas.

“At first I was opposed to Leon’s idea for I had heard about the pirates that infest the waters off the coast of black Africa. Heathens to be sure, suitable only for the gallows, yet as I continued to ponder Leon’s suggestion the idea soon grew in my mind to the point where I finally agreed. We would become pirates, for that was our destiny that God had ordained.”

But others, unknown to Marc, are shadowing him trying to steal the diary and seek Estabon’s treasure for themselves.

It is only later that Marc realizes that his estranged and abusive father, while seemingly trying to reunite with Marc, is also seeking the same buried treasure.

… all the while the secretly placed GPS transmitter that John Adams had placed under the wheel well of Marc’s jeep innocently blinked away its position.

All is not what it seems as Marc, Jesus and Bob try to solve the clues to find the treasure contained within Estabon’s diary as they revel in his many adventures on land as well as the high seas.

We cut our rigging and the King’s Vengeance came to a stop. We watched as long boats were rowed our way eventually pulling along side. Soon we were boarded and clapped in irons for we were pirates and would soon see the gallows.

It is only after Marc deciphers the many clues Estabon writes in his diary, is he able to discover the location of Estabon’s buried treasure.

After I had rested, I dragged my tired and broken body back to our now empty fortress and retrieved my diary for I knew that I must complete it before I died. I believed that someday God would cause it to be found so that the world would know what became of me and know the whereabouts of my treasure.

I am now ready for death. May God have mercy on my soul.

But others, including Marc’s estranged father attempt to steal Estabon’s treasure.

When he was satisfied, he raised the sniper rifle to his eye and adjusted the scope. Once he had it zeroed in, he threw back the bolt and inserted six metal-jacketed rounds. Then he slammed the bolt over, closed his trunk and walked into the woods looking for a high yet well hidden spot from which he could observe the dig and, if needed fire a few deadly rounds from his sniper rifle.

In the stunning conclusion, Marc’s father proves his love for his son but must escape from the authorities before he has a chance to make amends.

Joe stood up behind the small dune on the eastern side of Tiger Island, directly across from the downtown marina.

He checked his dive gear and noted that he had about thirty minutes left in his air tank. Just enough he thought for what he knew he had to do next. Slowly he slipped on the air tank making sure not to reopen his already healing wound. Then he strapped his weight belt around his waist and after looking all around and seeing nobody, he walked to the water’s edge and sat down. He slid on his swim fins and slowly waded into the cool refreshing morning water.

He’d spied a sail boat fairly close to him anchored in the mooring field. And it had a motorized dingy behind it. Then he slipped under water and swam towards the sail boat and his freedom.

But it is Estabon who has the last laugh as recounted in translated documents from an old Spanish mission.

“Then one day Gloria spied a ship sailing from the island. She ran to the beach and called out to the small single-masted ship but the Captain, she called his Estabon, did not hear her. She then ran to their one time home on top of the tallest hill. There before her was a large hole.”

Chapter 1

I am dead, may the Lord have mercy on my wretched soul and forgive me my many sins. I did what I had to do.

I began this diary of my life and many journeys in the forlorn hope that one day it will be discovered and the world will know that at one point in time, I lived.

Now as I scratch this postscript my bitten leg is dying as will the rest of my body soon. The poison that that devil shark infected me with is slowly creeping through my hot blood. Once the smell of death begins to sour the fresh salty sea air, I will bury myself in the dark cold grave I have already dug. I will rest forever on top of a small hill that overlooks the Atlantic, the ocean that has brought me fortune and adventure. I will wait until the delirium invades my mind. Then I will drag my dying body into my grave where with my last bit of strength, I will cut the vine that holds back the cold and sandy dirt, which will tumble over me as I breathe my last breath.

I do not ask forgiveness for what I have done for God has forsaken me. The many violent acts I committed were necessary for my own survival. I can only hope that God is all merciful.

I add this last passage at the beginning of my story. Those that find this, if true to my words, will discover my grave and the secret I take to it. May God bless King Philip and all that is Spain.

“What else does it say?” seventeen-year-old Marc asked Jesus, pushing his salty-wet, curly blond hair back over his forehead.

“Hold on. It’s hard to translate. The Spanish writing’s very old. I’m having a hard time trying to read it,” Jesus, nineteen, replied.

“I can’t believe we found it. What do you think it is?”

“It’s some kind of diary. And it’s pretty old. Maybe we should take this to Bob at Amelia Research?” Jesus asked, raising his jet-black eyebrows and flipping his long, straight black hair off his forehead.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want this document to fall apart on us. I wonder what his secret was and who he was.”

“I don’t know, but this is really something. Let’s see if we can dig out the rest of this pot and get it over to Bob,” Jesus instructed as he and Marc bent over and began scratching away the rest of the sand revealing the ceramic jar.

They carefully lifted the five-century-old pot from the moist sand that had held it tight and looked at its beautiful design, amazingly well preserved. They gently wrapped it in a thick, soft beach towel to carry it over to Marc’s vehicle. After Marc had strapped his surfboard to the top of his maroon Jeep Wrangler, he and Jesus climbed in and Jesus held the bundle on his lap, protecting it from any jolts and bumps. They made the short trip from the south end of Amelia Island into Fernandina Beach, where they finally pulled off South Fletcher Avenue and into the parking lot of Hall’s Beach Store, beside the traffic roundabout with Sadler Road

Marc turned off the Jeep’s growling engine and both made their way into the light blue-roofed building. They walked through the little beachside convenience store, past the coolers filled with racks of cold beer and soft drinks, into the back part of the store and the headquarters of Amelia Research.

A treasure hunting company, Amelia Research had been searching the waters off Amelia Island, on the northeast coast of Florida, as well as around the Florida Keys, for sunken Spanish treasure. Specifically, the firm was now hunting for a Spanish galleon, the San Miguel, which along with her sister ship, the Ciero, sank off the south end of Amelia Island in an 18th century hurricane. Besides sinking the San Miguel and Ciero, the hurricane scattered and sank nine other Spanish galleons on their way back to Spain after leaving Havana with their hulls full of Incan gold.

“Whatcha got there?” Bob Knowles asked, straightening his lanky body from behind the glass counter full of rusted artifacts upon seeing Marc and Jesus walk into the little dive shop and main office.

“Bob, look what we found! It’s some kind of diary,” Marc excitedly said, running his fingers through his curly hair, now dried from the hot Florida air.

“Yeah, it’s written in old Spanish. I tried translating the first part. But it’s really hard,” Jesus added, meeting Bob’s deep blue eyes.

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” Bob said as Marc and Jesus lifted the worn clay pot up onto the glass counter that separated the good friends from each other.

Bob reached down and without looking, raised his reading glasses that hung around his neck and slipped on a pair of white latex gloves. Then he gingerly opened the fragile pot. Reaching in, he pulled out a stack of very old and tattered documents, setting them down on the counter top.

“Well, one thing we need to do immediately is to preserve these,” Bob said. “I know of a service in Jacksonville that can do this for us. Now, let’s see what this says. Jesus, can you read a bit further?”

“Sure. Let’s see.” Jesus began to read from where he’d left off at the beach.

My name is Estabon Cervantas.

“Hey, that’s your last name,” Marc turned and said to Jesus. “You think you might be related?”

“Could be. I know my ancestors were at St. Augustine,” Jesus replied as he turned the page and continued reading.

I am from a small farm in the Seville region of Spain. Being from a poor family, my prospects for fortune were few. I joined the King’s Navy a year ago after my seventeenth birthday in the year 1564.

“Holy cow!” Bob broke in, looking over his glasses and meeting Jesus’ brown eyes. “You guys really did find something. Read on.”

“Okay,” Jesus responded.

On that bright spring day, as I walked away from my childhood home, carrying only my most precious belongings for that is all that would fit in my poor bag, I turned around after I had reached the edge of our farm and saw my good mother standing at the doorway of our poor house. My tired father was already at work tending the fields for he knew I was to leave. I raised my arm and waved goodbye to my good mother who returned this simple gesture of affection. Little did I know that I would never see either again.

“Bummer,” Marc commented to nobody in particular.

I had the very good fortune of enlisting with Admiral Pedro Menendez de Aviles, an honorable and proper man of influence. We soon set sail for Puerto Rico, the main Spanish colony in the new world. The voyage lasted six weeks.

First we sailed south along the coast of black Africa. Then we caught the trade winds that pushed us across the Atlantic into the Caribbean. I, having never sailed before and being short of stature for my age, was assigned to the ship’s cook, an ugly and vile man of few manners and poor taste, for he was a dirty man as you shall soon agree.

I grew to despise my new position for it was one of slavery as I was required to do my master’s bidding no matter the vile task at hand.

Each morning I would cut away the green mold from our bread. I would skim the putrid slime from the top of our water barrels. I would stoke the fire as my master boiled the dry moldy meat. I soon could not eat and began to lose weight.

“Yuck, I would too,” Marc interrupted. “Any ideas about this, Bob?”

“A few. I know that in 1565 an Admiral Menendez sailed north from Puerto Rico and founded St. Augustine. He then attacked and massacred all the French Huguenots at Fort Caroline. I believe Admiral Menendez also massacred Jean Ribault and all his crew after finding them washed up on the beach after surviving a hurricane. Obviously this Estabon sailed with Menendez. What else does it say?”

Jesus continued after pushing away his jet black hair from his forehead.

One night after we had served the crew, my cruel master drank a large amount of wine and became possessed by the evil spirits that lurk at the bottom of the cask. He called me passionate names and spoke of vile acts that are best left unknown to a good and proper man such as me. I became scared for my own welfare, having never been trained to defend myself as one always should.

My master cornered me behind one of the stinking water barrels as I tried to hide from him. He jerked me up by my hair, pulling out large handfuls, and pressed his fat unclean body against mine.

I struggled as I could feel his rotten breath against my neck. I did what I needed to do. I hit him with my knee below his waist. He reeled backwards and at that moment I saw my escape. That was when I decided to leave this expedition and to seek my own adventure in the new world for I had filled my heart with disgust for this man and the rest of the crew. I only needed to wait for the proper time.

“Jeez, man,” Marc said, meeting the eyes of the others before Jesus read further.

After we made port in Puerto Rico, we resupplied. During this time I befriended Leon Hernandez, a proper man of society. He came from a privileged family and was raised with all the accommodations that I had never known. But, Leon too grew restless and joined Admiral Menendez’s crew.

While in Puerto Rico I learned many things that all good men of adventure should know. I learned how to use a sword and pike to defend myself and to kill our enemies. I learned how to drink spirits and of the ways of women, who for a few doubloons or worthless trinkets would show me the mystery of love.

I soon took up with a Carib half-breed I named Petra, for I could not pronounce her native heathen name. She was a woman of extreme beauty with clear smooth skin, hair as black as cinders, a quick white smile and eyes that seemed to laugh when she did.

I enjoyed my short time with her and did my best to learn all I could about the mystery of love until the day when we received orders to sail north to La Florida. Little did I know until I was well out to sea on that bright clear day, having sailed on the early morning tide, that my beautiful Petra had stolen all my precious trinkets. But all was not lost, for you see I left her with a bastard growing in her belly.

“Why’d you stop?” Marc asked when Jesus halted his reading.

“Ah, the paper’s kind of smeared here. I really can’t tell what it says.”

“That’s okay. We know this boy sailed with Menendez. This document is very valuable. We need to get it preserved as quickly as possible,” Bob said. “How’d you find this, anyway?”

“I was surfing the south end,” Marc explained. “Jesus was watching and just combing the beach when I heard him shouting to me. I paddled ashore and--”

“And that’s when I showed Marc the half buried pot,” Jesus said. “We opened it and I began to read the beginning. It’s pretty wild. Do you think this guy was a pirate?”

“No,” Bob said. “Pirates, as we know them, really didn’t begin to appear in this region until after the hurricane of 1715.”

“Really?” Marc asked.

“Sure. Of course, there’ve always been pirates but originally they were just a bunch of misfits who settled on the island of Hispaniola where they went into the cattle trade.”

“What, they were farmers?” Jesus asked, his voice rising.

“No. They cured the cattle meat in ovens called boucans and sold or traded their dried meat with any ships that would pass by.”

Marc raised his eyebrows and asked, “You mean they made jerky?”

“I guess you could say that. Anyway, buccaneer comes from the term boucan. But the Spanish saw these traders as potential trouble and began to systematically eliminate them. The Spanish forced the buccaneers into a life of thievery, hence the well known pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Yeah, but all they were trying to do was to make a living,” said Marc.

“True enough. But you need to strip away all the Hollywood stuff and see the pirate for what he really was, an economic terrorist, no different from the religious terrorists of today. They were extremely violent. Some might even say hyper-violent.”

The three of them paused for a moment, each envisioning colorful pirates, cutlasses at the ready, standing tall on the bridge of their ship, sailing the high seas with the wind at their backs. Then Bob broke the silence.

“Let me lock this document up for the night and tomorrow we’ll contact the firm I mentioned in Jacksonville to see about preserving this. Okay?”

“Sounds good, Bob,” Marc agreed.

As Marc and Jesus left Amelia Research, each briefly noticed the tall, darkly-tanned man with his back turned away, checking out the dive equipment. Neither one thought anything about it as the stranger stood seemingly examining a dive mask, but silently listening to every word they had said.