Chapter 110: The Fattest Prize in the Caribbean
Samuel Bellamy stepped forward, although by then folks had already taken to fancy him Black Sam.
"There’s a fleet formin’ out of Kingston."
He kept his voice casual, and still every man in the room heard him. "Homeward bound, every planter and merchant on that island’s throwin’ his own ship into the convoy. None of them fancy ridin’ through storm season with a year’s harvest sittin’ in the hold, so they plan to leave the islands and catch the wind before the season closes on ’em."
Thatch snorted, but he couldn’t hide the hunger in his eyes.
"And?"
Black Sam smiled.
"And she’s the fattest prize to cross these waters in months."
Vane’s grin widened.
"Say that again, slower. I want to enjoy every bloody word."
James clicked his tongue, though the corner of his mouth still lifted. Beside him, Cudjoe remained with his arms folded, face unreadable.
"How many ships, and what’s in ’em?" Thatch asked.
"Better than twenty. Merchantmen, cargo ships, whatever the planters could scrape together and still call fit for the crossin’."
"And the cargo?"
"Sugar first. More casks than most of ye’ve ever seen outside a warehouse. Rum beside it, molasses besides."
Vane gave a low, dirty laugh. "Enough rum to keep every man in Nassau drunk and every whore flat on her back till Christmas."
"Cotton," Black Sam continued, without missing a beat. "Indigo, ginger, pimento enough to season every kitchen in London twice over."
Levasseur inspected Black Sam as if he had far more charm than anyone else in the room.
"Enough spice, at least, to make the English almost bearable to smell."
"Plus dyewood, hides."
Black Sam let the words spread for a moment. "And under all of it, coin, minted coin. Bullion besides. Customs money and merchants’ remittances sailin’ home with the rest."
Thatch finally couldn’t hold back his laugh. "That’s the only word in that whole speech I truly cared about."
Mos of the gallery joined him.
Burgess pursed his lips. For once, even he seemed to be vaguely interested on the prize.
"And what’s escortin’ all that wealth? A convoy like that doesn’t sail bare-arsed."
"One small man o’ war."
Black Sam replied at once. "HMS Falmouth, so I’ve heard. A handful of frigates with her, and near a dozen sloops and tenders workin’ the scout."
Vane frowned.
"What in the seven hells is a war ship doin’ called small? Either she’s a man o’ war or she in’t."
James let himself smile.
"She’s a fourth-rate, Vane. I reckon fifty guns across two full decks."
The words came easy enough. He knew ships like that. "Built to stand in the line and trade broadsides until one side can’t do shite about it."
Vane stared at him for a beat, then shrugged and reached for his cup.
Thatch was still not done. "And who’s holdin’ twenty some greedy bastards to the plan once the first shot’s fired and prize is in sight?"
"No one. We will meet them off the Bahama Channel."
Black Sam tapped a finger against the broken tabletop.
"She’s got to squeeze through the narrows before she turns north. That’s where we wait."
His finger gestured a flanking maneuver. "We hit from every point at once, force the escort to look everywhere, and they’ll see nothin’ clearly. Once they spread themselves thin tryin’ to cover every merchant, the convoy breaks apart. Then we’re huntin’ scattered ships and it’s every crew for itself."
"And if the man o’ war plants herself in the middle and refuses to chase?"
Black Sam shrugged, "Then she still can’t protect everyone. She focus on one unlucky bastard, then some lucky bastard sails away. Either way, merchants start runnin’."
Nobody disagreed with him.
The animosity that filled the room vanished for uneasy cooperation. Some cups were brought without anyone asking while men leaned over the splintered wood, talking distances, tides, courses, and time. Even Burgess had stopped wiping sweat from his face every few moments.
Then Jennings smiled.
It looked like the expression had been waiting for the right moment.
He clapped his hands to get the room attention.
"Ye’ve all spent plenty of breath talkin’ about splittin’ escorts and scatterin’ merchantmen."
Silence reigned over the gallery. "But none of ye have named the one thing that will decide whether any of this bloody plan works."
His gaze moved slowly around the table. "Twenty some sloops buzzin’ round a man o’ war won’t do much. She’ll still sink any bastard that ends up close enough."
His eyes stopped on James.
"But there’s one lass in Nassau that can pin her toe-to-toe."
He pointed.
"Yours."
Every head in the room turned toward James.
James let the silence sit for a breath. Cudjoe didn’t move so much as a finger.
Then James’ grin spread wider, familiar and reckless.
"Aye, why not. Count the Rose in, and the Fortune at that."
He rolled one shoulder until it loosened with a gentle pop.
"My lass has been groanin’ for a fight for a while. Fifty guns sounds respectable enough."
His smile sharpened. "But the Rose has teeth enough. If she stands, we’ll bloody her. If she fancies a fight, we might even send this swollen frigate to the bottom."
Vane threw back his head and laughed.
"Christ, the man’s every bit as mad as the rest of us."
He slammed the broken table, making the surviving cups jump. "Count the Cormorant twice. Get me alongside that fake ass man o’ war and I’ll make her wish she’d never sailed out o’ Kingston."
Levasseur looked up at last. "If Capitaine Calloway intends to buy the whole convoy with his own ship, mon ami, I’d be a fool not to claim my share."
He inclined his head.
"Count the Postillion."
Burgess looked from one captain to another. He wiped his brow one last time, drew a slow breath, and squared his shoulders.
"Well... if there’s truly a chance we all live through it, and somebody else is standin’ in front of the biggest guns."
He managed a nervous smile.
"Count the Providence too. God help every one of us."
Black Sam’s smile only grew.
"Count the Marianne’s in. I’d not miss this voyage for all the gold aboard her."
Thatch’s tongue ran slowly across his teeth.
"Count the Revenge. Been too long since I looked down the sights at a King’s ship."
Jennings lifted what remained of his drink.
The grin never left his face.
"Then it’s done. Count the Barsheba."
He emptied the cup.
"Now all that’s left is the sailin’."
Around the gallery, voices rose before he’d even lowered it. Captains called out their ships, their crews, and their guns, each eager to be counted before someone else claimed the glory first. The tally climbed faster than anyone could keep track of, until the room was less like a gallery and more like a fleet already ready to depart.
⚔ [QUEST ISSUED]
The Fattest Prize in the Caribbean
A convoy unlike any other is being set up beneath the Crown’s protection. Sugar, rum, indigo, coin enough to ransom kingdoms. Every merchant in Jamaica has wagered a year’s fortune that the Royal Navy can see it safely across the Atlantic.
They are about to discover otherwise.
Intercept the Kingston convoy. Take what you can. Leave the rest for the sharks.
Reward : 200 Fate
Reward : ???
Most pirates spend years building a reputation before attempting something this catastrophically ambitious. You appear to have skipped that step.