When The Venture re-entered Kingston Harbour, the atmosphere was completely different. News in the seafaring world spread faster than fire on a dry ship. The story of a junk privateer ship led by a boy, who had managed to cripple the Santa Catalina and escape from under the Spanish's nose, had become an instant legend.
Harbour Master Phips met them at the dock, his sour face now replaced by a forced smile. "Welcome back, Captain Vance. A successful voyage, I hear?"
"Just business as usual, Mr. Phips," Thomas said, hopping onto the dock. "Please make sure no one bothers my ship. We have business with the Governor."
The streets of Port Royal now felt different. People moved aside to make way for Thomas and his six burly crewmen as they carried the heavy Spanish payroll chest up the hill. Whispers followed them, a mixture of disbelief, envy, and admiration. Reputation, Thomas realized, was a currency as powerful as gold.
At the Governor's Mansion gates, the same guards who had once dismissed them now stood at attention and saluted.
They were escorted directly to the Governor's study. Sir Alistair Finch was standing in front of the fireplace, with the stiff-looking Commodore James Harrington beside him. And near the window, casually twirling a small dagger in her hand, stood Eleanor Finch. Her eyes sparkled at Thomas's arrival.
"Governor," Thomas said simply. At his signal, his men slammed the chest onto the expensive mahogany floor and opened it. Piles of gleaming Silver Coins and several bags of Gold Coins spilled out, reflecting the light from the window. "The Spanish garrison's payroll. I doubt they'll receive it this month."
Commodore Harrington coughed to hide his surprise. Governor Finch walked over, took a handful of coins, and let them flow through his fingers. A thin, genuine smile finally appeared on his lips.
"Remarkable, Vance. Truly remarkable," the Governor said. "You've proven your words."
"I always do," Thomas replied. "Now, about your promise. My contract, and our share of this loot."
Governor Finch nodded. He returned to his desk and handed over a beautiful parchment scroll, tied with a red ribbon and sealed with the English Royal seal. A Letter of Marque. The document officially transformed Thomas from an anonymous pirate into a legal weapon of the Crown.
"This is your contract," the Governor said. "And as agreed, sixty percent of the contents of this chest are yours and your crew's. Enough to turn your wreck of a ship into a worthy threat."
Thomas took the letter, feeling its weight in his hand. This wasn't just paper; it was legitimacy. It was protection. When he looked up, his gaze met Eleanor's.
"With this letter," Thomas said, his voice addressed to the Governor but his eyes fixed on his daughter, "at least my next adventure will be considered honorable. Perhaps honorable enough to invite a noble lady to a dance someday."
Eleanor gave a wry smile, a challenge in her eyes. "You'll have to make sure you can walk on a ballroom floor without tripping over your sword first, Captain."
That night, The Tipsy Privateer belonged to The Venture's crew. Thomas handed out a generous bonus to every crew member, and the tavern roared with their songs and laughter. Captain Vance's name was cheered with every raised glass of rum.
However, in the midst of the celebration, Thomas wasn't completely lost in the revelry. His ears remained sharp, filtering information from other sailors' chatter. He heard about the increasing pirate activity on the English shipping lanes, particularly by a troublesome pair of Irish brothers.
He approached the bartender. "Who are the boldest raiders on these waters right now, who aren't yet a legend like Blackbeard?"
The bartender grinned. "Looking for new trouble, Captain? The Flynn Twins. Connor and Declan. They use two fast Pinnace ships and work together flawlessly. They just plundered two cotton merchant ships last week. The Governor has set a 600 Gold Coin bounty on their heads."
Thomas nodded. A perfect target. Challenging enough to raise his reputation, wealthy enough to be profitable.
He returned to the center of his boisterous crew, raising his glass high. "Enjoy your rum tonight, lads! Spend every coin! Because tomorrow morning, we're going to turn The Venture into the fastest and deadliest ship in the Caribbean!"
The cheers erupted again.
"And after that," Thomas continued, a smile appearing on his face, "we'll set sail again. I hear there's a pair of twins who need to be taught a lesson about who the real master of the seas is."
The morning after the celebration, the air in Port Royal was heavy with regret and hangovers. But not for Thomas. With a pouch of gold coins on his belt, he returned to Finch & Sons Shipyard.
"Foreman," Thomas said to the same burly man, placing the pouch with a satisfying clink on his workbench. "Let's talk about upgrades."
If the foreman was only impressed before, he was now listening intently.
"I don't care about cargo space," Thomas explained, pointing at the Brig model on the table. "Convert some of it into additional barracks and an ammunition hold. I want the lower hull copper-plated; I need every knot of speed I can get to chase two Pinnaces at once. Give me the best quality silk sails, reinforce all the masts, and Riggs tells me he needs a more stable cannon platform for maximum accuracy. Can you do it?"
The foreman stared at Thomas for a moment. "I can, Captain. With this much gold, I could make your ship fly."
Over the next week, while hammers and saws clanged non-stop at the shipyard, Captain Vance's reputation spread throughout Port Royal. In The Tipsy Privateer, sailors now told his story, each retelling making his fight with Volkov even more heroic. Invitations from lavish entertainment houses like The Queen's Pleasure House came in, which for now, he politely ignored.
Driven by curiosity—and perhaps a bit of mischief—Thomas revisited the Governor's Mansion under the pretense of reporting on his ship's progress. Of course, he knew the Governor didn't care about the technical details. His target was someone else.
He found Eleanor in the same garden, practicing fencing with fierce intensity against a overwhelmed-looking guard sergeant.
"A beautiful movement, Miss Finch," Thomas called from the edge of the garden, his voice casual yet clear. "But your wrist is a little stiff when you parry."
Eleanor stopped, slightly out of breath. She turned, her green eyes narrowing in challenge. "Easy theory to state from the sidelines, Captain. Perhaps you'd like to prove your words with steel, not just with your tongue?"
"The honor would be mine," Thomas replied with a smile. He borrowed a rapier from the relieved-looking guard.
They took their positions in the middle of the garden. Eleanor attacked first, her movements fast and precise, the product of years of training. Thomas, with his experience in chaotic deck brawls, had a more flexible but equally deadly style.
Clang! Cling!
Their swords met in a series of sharp, musical clashes. Eleanor was graceful and technical. Thomas was strong and unpredictable. He didn't try to overpower her with brute force, but rather matched her every move with a clever counter, forcing her to be on the defensive. For Thomas, this was more intimate than any conversation. He could see how Eleanor's mind worked in her every movement, seeing the fire in her eyes as she found a worthy opponent.
In a swift move, Thomas managed to hook Eleanor's blade, twist it, and gently disarm her. The tip of his rapier now stopped an inch from Eleanor's throat.
A silence fell over them. Both were breathing heavily, standing very close. Thomas could feel the warmth of her skin and see the flash of admiration behind Eleanor's still challenging gaze.
"It seems," Thomas whispered, his smile now more genuine, "you are indeed more dangerous than half the pirates in the Caribbean, Miss Finch."
"And you," Eleanor replied, a faint smile on her lips, "are more than just a lucky captain."
She pulled away, taking back her sword. "Next time, Captain, I won't go so easy on you."
"I look forward to it," Thomas replied.
A week later, the new Venture was born. Its copper-plated lower hull gleamed under the water, promising a speed he had never had before. Its cannons were now firmly mounted, and its new sails billowed like a flag of victory.
Thomas stood at the helm, feeling the new power of his ship. His crew, now numbering nearly a hundred after several bold sailors joined, impressed by his reputation, moved with efficiency.
"All supplies are loaded, Captain!" Arthur reported. "We're ready to sail."
Thomas looked out at the open ocean. The time for relaxation was over. The time for the hunt had arrived.
"Good," he said, his voice echoing on the deck. "Hoist our flag. We sail on the tide." He looked at Arthur, a grin on his face. "The Flynn Twins have been dancing on our trade lanes for too long. It's time to cut their music short."
For a week, The Venture became a true hunter. The ship glided over the waves of the English Sugar Route with new speed and grace. The copper plating on its hull sliced through the water without resistance, and its new silk sails caught every gust of wind. The crew, now full of confidence, moved on the deck with the discipline honed by Arthur and the efficiency instilled by Riggs.
They patrolled the waters between Jamaica and Barbados, the favorite territory of The Flynn Twins. Thomas was patient. He knew the hunt was a waiting game.
On the morning of the eighth day, the wait was over. "Two ships at the bow, Captain!" the lookout shouted. "Pinnace type! Attacking a merchant ship!"
Thomas grabbed his spyglass. Sure enough, two smaller, nimble ships moved like a pair of wolves, circling a fat sheep—a slow English merchant ship. Their tactics were synchronized and brutal. One attacked from the front to distract, while the other rained fire from the side.
"They're fast, Captain," Arthur said, standing beside him. "If we chase one, the other will be free to destroy our blind side."
"Exactly," Thomas said, a thin smile on his lips. "They're used to dancing together. It's time we made them step on each other's toes."
He turned to Riggs, who was already standing near the bow cannons, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Riggs! I want you to separate them. A warning shot, right between the two. Make them panic!"
"With pleasure, Captain," Riggs growled.
The Venture didn't approach quietly. The ship sped at full throttle, heading straight for the center of the battle. The Flynn Twins, too focused on their prey, only realized their presence when it was too late.
BOOM!
Two of The Venture's bow cannons fired, targeting the water between the two ships. Seawater exploded into the air in two giant pillars, startling both pirate captains and forcing them to instinctively maneuver away in opposite directions. Their formation was shattered.
"Good job, Riggs!" Thomas shouted. "Now we choose our dance partner! Helmsman, chase the ship on the right! Riggs, cripple her sails!"
One of the twins, whom Thomas later learned was named Connor, was the more reckless one. Seeing his brother pull away, he decided to fight The Venture alone. It was a fatal mistake.
The Venture's cannons, now stable and served by a trained crew, rained fire on the Pinnace with precision. Chain-shot tore her sails to shreds, while grapeshot cleared her deck of gunners. In less than fifteen minutes, Connor's ship had become a helpless floating wreck.
"One down," Thomas said calmly. He looked at the second ship, commanded by Declan, who was now hesitating between helping his brother and fleeing. "And a coward always runs."
Sure enough, the second Pinnace turned and tried to escape.
"You won't get far," Thomas murmured. This was the moment to test his ship's new speed. The Venture surged forward, its copper plating giving it an advantage no other ship had. The chase was short. They easily overtook Declan's panicked ship.
The close-quarters battle was even faster than before. Thomas's crew swarmed the decks of both ships with the confidence of winners. The Flynn Twins, known for their synchronized duo fighting, were now separated and ineffective. Thomas himself faced a furious Connor in the middle of his shattered ship's deck, parrying his wild slashes before easily disarming him.
The victory was absolute.
As the crew gathered the spoils—mostly cotton and rum, with a few coins—Arthur emerged from Declan's captain's cabin, carrying a strangely carved wooden box. "Captain, you have to see this."
Inside the box, on a worn velvet cushion, lay a silver compass. The compass was beautiful, but its needle did not point north. The needle spun erratically before suddenly stopping, pointing shakily towards one of the mortally wounded Irish pirates on the deck. Just as the needle stopped, the man gasped, took his last breath, and died.
The crew who saw it recoiled in horror.
Thomas took the compass. It felt cold in his hand. He had heard legends about artifacts like this in the darkest taverns. A compass that didn't show a direction, but showed sorrow.
The compass needle now trembled again, slowly turning away from the pirate's corpse, and stopped pointing towards the vast open ocean to the northwest—towards the mysterious fog that shrouded the Shattered Sea. Pointing to an upcoming tragedy, or perhaps, a tragedy that was already happening.
Their hunt for a 600 Gold Coin bounty had just turned into something much stranger and more dangerous.
"Arthur," Thomas said softly, his eyes fixed on the trembling silver needle. "It seems our next hunt has chosen us."