The muted light was gritty and sticky. Her eyeballs moved under her pasted lids, but they were unable to open. Her head slipped to the right, and the beating sun scorched her already dark, sunblasted cheek.
The other end of her body sent a different stimulus. While one foot was bare, the other still wore her cavalier bucket-top boot. With rhythmic symmetry, her feet were immersed in cooling water, then abandoned back to the full exposure of the sun. A moment passed, and again, her right foot was cooled by the rushing water while her booted foot merely floated with the whims of the tide.
A tortured moan rumbled in her throat as her head made another roll to the right. Cloudy consciousness prevailed. She was vaguely aware of the searing pain that ran through her. With great effort, her eyes were forced open. Well, not truly opened, but the attempt had been made. Her damaged right hand came up to her face and wiped at the crust that glued her eyelids shut. Sand now covered her face and added to the torment of regaining her sight. Sand, in any situation, is a terrible lubricant.
A second swipe, this time with the back of her left hand, and she felt the lids peel apart, starting in the center and then popping free on the edges. The mid-day sun singed her corneas. Her face contorted, and she rolled onto her side to avoid the blasting sunshine.
The roll brought with it a new wave of pain so excruciating that it stopped her motion and she winced back to her original position.
Her right arm dropped across her face to protect her eyes from the glare. Her left pounded the sand. She let out a scream that was a combination of pain and frustration.
“Arrr! You son of a whore.”
The pain emanated from her left leg. The frustration stemmed from her stupidity.
Two deep breaths, and she pressed against the soggy sand to rise on her elbows. With a loud groan, she sat up as best she could. With one slight stretch at a time, her elbows scooched beneath her for elevation. Grimacing and gasping for breath, her eyes adjusted to the scene before them. Blurred as her vision was, she saw the origin of her pain. The shiny black leather pants, now covered in drying sea salt, seaweed, and sand, had been sliced below her pelvis and exposed a gaping gash on her right thigh. The slash started just above her knee and swept up and outward toward her groin. The dripping wet, cavernous wound was twelve inches long and well over an inch deep. The contrast of the deep red blood and her dark skin made the wound look even worse. She could see the thigh muscle, radish-red; severed and bleeding.
This is going to leave a scar.
Tiara instinctively began to process a solution to her situation. Priorities were always her primary focus. Forcing herself into a full sitting position, she took stock of her surroundings and assessed any immediate threats. Her long, black hair was tangled and matted with sand and seaweed. It hung over her face, obscuring her view. Tucking it behind her ear, she looked left and then right. The surrounding environment was as familiar to her as her captain’s cabin.
She was on a beach.
Of course, I am. If I’m not on my ship, I’m on a beach. Nothing odd about that.
Behind her, about twenty yards away, was a row of coconut trees, along with dozens of large, sprawling ferns. The thought of shade was most appealing.
If I can get there, I can figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
The pain in her leg was mounting, and the wound was oozing blood. Prioritizing her needs, stopping the bleeding was top of her agenda.
She unbuckled her wide leather belt and pulled it from her waist. She saw right away that the knife that she kept in the sheath attached to her belt was missing. She pursed her lips, and the frustration of losing the weapon angered her.
Damn it!
Leaning forward, she lifted her right leg and slid the belt underneath. With a scowl on her face, she slid the belt up to her crotch and pulled it tight. The bleeding slowed, but the pain increased.
Damn, that hurts.
Tiara looked down at her right hand and saw that it had been slashed and caked with sand. That explained why she had trouble moving her fingers.
Temporarily bound, she began to drag her soaking wet ass out of the sun and toward the tree line. Her right leg was useless and wouldn’t help her on her journey. Using her arms and her left leg, she was able to crawl on her backside over the sand. Her jacket and doublet bunched up beneath her and, being dripping wet, weighed her down. She abandoned them after several feet, unwrapping a piece of unwanted seaweed from the sleeve of the coat. The empty sheath, which hung limply over her shoulder, also caused considerable resistance. It was then she realized, the De-Coronator, her trusty sword, was missing. No doubt at the bottom of the sea. She shook her head and pounded at the sand once again.
Ah, God damn it!
But there was nothing that could be done about that now either. That was a problem to be addressed later. Again, priorities prevailed. Pulling the strap of the sheath over her head, she tossed it aside.
Her butt crawl continued. Scooting a half-body length at a time, she made her way closer to shade.
An agonizing ten minutes later, accompanied by several verbal grunts and outbursts of pain, she was leaning against the trunk of a coconut tree.
Breathless and exhausted, she was on the verge of unconsciousness once again. Fighting off a wave of nausea, she moved to the next step of her survival.
What in Hades do I do now?
Pushing the pain aside, she did a reconnaissance of her surroundings.
She was on a beach. But not on an island; it was an atoll—a circular island formed by coral reefs that surround a central lagoon. The lush vegetation that circled the lagoon provided welcome shade, and she relished the few-degree drop in temperature. It was as good as it was going to get at the moment.
Her leg was throbbing. Her sword and dagger were missing. Patting her stomach, she found her pistol, which had somehow miraculously remained tucked into her waistline. However, it was soaked, and the pouch with extra cartridges was not to be found. It was not a viable weapon.
Her head dropped back against the coconut tree trunk. Her eyes closed, and with a huge inhale, she filled her lungs.
At least I’m still breathing.
Consciously slowing her breathing, she calmed herself.
It’s going to take more than this to kill me.
Not close to giving up, she did what she always did in dire situations. She reached for the courage that lay within, the courage that had taken her so far in this life. The courage that had allowed her to live the life of a pirate.
Remember who you are! You’re the meanest bitch on the ocean!
“I am Tiara Jewel!” she yelled to the waves, “Feared through all of these Caribbean waters.” Her right arm shot into the air in defiance of her pain.
Tiara exhaled. Her exclamation had renewed plausible hope.
“Right. What the hell do I do now?” Her voice was raspy and her throat scratched as she spoke. The inside of her mouth was swollen and tasted like seawater. No doubt she had swallowed quite a bit before she washed up on this beach.
Leaning back against the tree, she looked out over the ocean. There was the remnant of what had once been her mighty vessel. Under her command, The Siren’s Song had ruled the seas from Bimini to Brazil. And now, with the bow submerged, the stern smoldered as smoke billowed into the sea air. It was the last breath her glorious ship would ever take.
She closed her eyes and her chin dropped to her chest. Regret filled her blackened heart as she considered her mistakes. A fog descended on her, and despite her domineering will, she slipped into unconsciousness.
Trapped in a fugue state, memories of her youth began to appear. At first, she was the young girl of thirteen. Her blood had just come in. She remembered mucking out a stall on a sheep ranch south of Kingston. There were a dozen other native girls cleaning out the stalls as well. They were using pitchforks, brooms, and shovels. Out of nowhere, one of the ranch hands began to shout warnings.
“Get out! Everyone. Run!” She heard him yell. “Go for the hills! Pirates!”
The other girls dropped their tools and scattered. Unlike the others, Tiara remembered being intrigued by the panic on the other girls’ faces. Instead of running away, she moved toward the danger. Arriving at the beach, she saw her first pirates.
On the shore, a swarm of men jumped out of the several skiffs, their rifles gleaming, pistols cocked, swords flashing in the harsh sunlight. Wild and blood-red bandanas were knotted around their heads, their faces set with grim determination. Heavy leather boots thundered onto the sand, each step a promise of violence. Thick leather straps crisscrossed their bodies, bristling with buckles and the spoils of past raids. They descended on her in an instant.
A skinny, sore-ridden pirate grabbed her by the arm and snarled, “I’ve got you, lassie. You’re coming with me.” He dragged her from the shore toward the barn. She didn’t understand what was happening, but at the same time, she wasn’t terrified, like the others seemed to be. She remembered a sense of excitement.
Once they were in the barn, the pirate threw her to the ground and laughed. “Ye don’t seem to be scared or shivering. Could it be you like this, eh?” He began to unbuckle his belt. Tiara didn’t understand what was happening. This had never happened to her before. The pirate dropped his pants and for the first time, she saw a naked man.
He waddled to her, his pants around his ankles. He grabbed her by her ankle and pulled her toward him. As he did, she struck her head on a stall post and let out a yelp. “Arrr, that hurt.” She said.
He leaned over to her. She could smell his foul odor and see the rotting teeth. “I think you like the hurt. I can see it in your eyes, lass.” With a grin, he slapped her across the face. She did not like being hit. Her fist closed and she punched him in the nose.
Shocked at first, and then angered, the pirate came at her with hatred in his eyes. His anger did nothing but fuel the young Tiara’s rage. She side-stepped the waddling pirate, stuck out her foot and tripped him. With his pants around his ankles, he fell flat on his face. Tiara grabbed a pitchfork that one of the fleeing girls had tossed and rammed it into his neck, pinning him to the ground.
The pirate tried to cry out, but his voice box had been skewered. Instead of a yell, he gurgled, squirmed, and finally died.
Tiara looked down at the man without pity or remorse. She did not like being hit, and he should not have done that. She rubbed her reddening cheek. At that moment, she heard another pirate behind her. Spinning toward the other man, she saw anger on his face.
“What in Hades?” he said, bewildered and upset.
This new pirate, bigger and gruffer than the first, ran to her and threw his arms around her before she had the chance to fight back. “Yer off to see the captain and it’s not going to be a good time for ye.”
Back on the beach, the pirate threw her to the sand. Looking to the man who was apparently in charge, he said, “She killed Willy, ran a pitchfork through his throat.”
Tiara looked up at the man standing over her. He may have been the most imposing person she had ever seen. He was tall, thick, with a long black beard that almost hit the bottom of his waistcoat. Woven into the beard were jewels and trinkets. He wore a red velvet jacket, a gold vest, and black knee-high boots. A sword swung by his side, its hilt polished and shone in the sun. There was a nasty scar running across his left cheek, and she saw that he was missing two fingers on his right hand. Clearly, he was the captain. He looked like he was the ruler of the world. Tiara was attracted to him in a way she had never known.
“You’re telling me this wisp of a girl killed one of my men?” He barked out.
“Aye, sir. Willie, the coxswain.” The pirate replied in a cowed and subservient voice.
The captain walked around the prone Tiara. She couldn’t help but admire his posture, his stature, and the way he owned the very air that surrounded him.
“The Coxswain? Why the hell did you do that, lass?” He growled. “This is a great imposition. He held an important place on our ship.”
From her fugue state, Tiara felt what she had felt all those years ago. There was a longing to know this man, to learn from this man, to become this man.
Without fear, she looked up at the captain and said, “He punched me and I did not like that.”
The captain stared at her for a long moment. He then let out a belly laugh that rattled her rib cage. “Did you hear that, boys. She didn’t like it, so she killed him!” He laughed again. “If you were anyone else, you’d have been run through by now and forgotten. But damn lass, I see something in you.” Turning to one of the men, he said, “Put her on the ship. But don’t make her mad!” The men all laughed at the joke.
The Gilded Galeon: it was her first ship. It was under the tutelage of this ship’s captain, Bartholomew the Beast, that she began her education. Several months after she first joined this crew, there was no doubt that this was what she had been born to do. Captain Bart had taken her under his wing and groomed her to be first mate. She remembered when he first trusted her to be the pirate he must have known she could be.
They were sailing off the coast of Jamaica, her former home. It was a day for fair winds and following seas. He looked at her and said, “On the starboard side, what do ya see, lassie?”
Her head whipped to the right and she surveyed the ocean. In the distance, there was a brigantine bearing a British ensign. It was a bit smaller than the Galeon and appeared to be a transport vessel rather than a military one. A transport often carried with it gold and valuables along with affluent passengers. These were always a valued target with an excellent chance for multiple types of booty.
“Bart, they’re coming about. Dropping the mainsail and making a turn to port. They must have seen us and are running with the wind. Can we catch her, do you think?” Tiara yelled; the excitement in her voice was undeniable.
Bart chuckled and said, “Only one way to find out. She’s a quick ship but no real match for this man-o-war. Take us to her, lassie.”
The colors in this dream were vibrant and exaggerated. Tiara’s sense memory accelerated to the point where she felt the rough handrail leading up to the quarterdeck. She began shouting commands.
“All hands, hoy. Beat to quarters, men. We have a live one off the starboard side. Bring a spring upon ‘er and let’s get us some booty!”
A cheer went up from the men and they scurried to their posts, turning the ship in the direction of the brigantine. The sails billowed full, moving them toward the fleeing brigantine.
Using the aggressive maneuvering techniques that Bart had taught her, it took almost no time at all to overtake the slower vessel. With a cannon shot across their bow, they lowered their sails and surrendered to the Galeon without resistance.
It had been her first hijacking, and Tiara remembered it vividly. She led the boarding party in full command of the raid. The treasure they found was bountiful, along with much food, fruit and water. Of course, they had to kill the captain and first mate so as not to be followed, but that was just routine. Bart had her do the honors on that day. She remembered being shocked by how easy it had been and that, just like with weird Willie, she felt no remorse.
Tiara groaned, and her head drooped to the side. She was conscious of the light against her closed eyes and the steady, cooling wind on her face. Her body spasmed as her head jerked up and her eyes popped open. A lightheaded, fuzzy veil sat on her brain. She was on the verge of delirium and had to focus to remember where she was. With short, gasping breaths, she forced herself to remain awake. For most of the next minute, she succeeded in that endeavor. But, once again, her head dropped and she fell into the darkness.
This time, her mind went to her cabin on the Siren’s Song. Already one of the most feared pirates in the region, she enjoyed the spoils of her plundering with pleasure. The most pleasing, her dalliance with Jack Hawkson. There had been many men before him, having been forced at a young age to engage in sexual activities, but those days were long gone. No one dared touch her without permission lest they lose a hand. She was in control and she had whomever she desired. At this time, her desire brought her Jack Hawkson. It was his strong upper body, along with his quick wit, that most attracted her. He was a frequent visitor aboard the Siren’s Song, and they had enjoyed many fun and erotic times together. This particular moment, the sensation of post coital warmth, settling over her prone body. Her skin was stuck to his, yet neither cared. The memory of them lying in bed, facing each other, enjoying a long, deep embrace, brought about the only sense of joy she ever knew.
Jack was a pirate in his own right, although not as notorious as she. Despite his lack of success, she found him most amusing. As a lover, he was very skilled. She had made a special stop in Antigua the week before just to pick him up. Sometime during the conflict, she had lost track of Jack. Her heart panged at the thought of losing him.
She willed herself out of her daydream.
Oh, just stop it! Don’t be a dungbie. She screamed at herself as she regained consciousness.
“This is not the time, buccaneer. You have more pressing matters.” She mumbled, her lips barely moving. But the vividness of the dream hung with her, and a pang of regret filled her heart. If she didn’t think fast, there would be no more Jack Hawkson in her bed.
That would be such a shame.
There was a shout off to her left. Looking in that direction, she saw a dinghy riding the surf and skim up onto the beach. In the dinghy were six red-coated soldiers, each carrying a rifle. The two in the front jumped out and pulled the boat securely onto the sand. The others followed. Tiara heard the sergeant yell in a booming, stony voice, “She’s here somewhere. Go find that bilge-sucking whore.”
They broke into pairs and began searching the atoll.
It was only a matter of time before they would find her. No mercy could be expected when they did. She pushed herself deeper into the brush and sought out anything in her surroundings that she could use as a weapon. The best she could devise was a relatively solid branch that had been broken off one of the trees. It was not quite a club, but it would have to do. However, breaking off from the main trunk had left a jagged, pointy edge. It could prove helpful.
She pushed further back in the brush in an attempt to hide. It wasn’t long before a wave of darkness overtook her yet again, and she fell backwards into the brush.
Another dream descended upon her. This time, not so far into the past. It was the attack. It was the British man-o-war, the HMS Victory. That ship was bigger and apparently, faster than the Siren’s Song, for the Victory had outmaneuvered them, landing a precise shot against the port side of the hull, just above the waterline. A stupid mistake on her part. She should have known that the attack would come from the port side by the way the Victory close-hauled and was beating to windward. But instead of paying attention to the ship chasing them, she ordered her ship into position to counterattack by heaving to and waiting for their first move. That had been her downfall.
After the Victory had tacked starboard, it looked, by the way they were managing her sails, that she would come about on that side. But at the last minute, she tacked left and cut across the Siren’s stern and positioned herself squarely on the port side. Upon gaining that advantage, they fired and scored a direct hit. The gaping hole left in the hull had stopped the Siren dead in the water. They were taking on water at an impossible rate. The Victory plowed side to side into the Siren. Grappling hooks flew over the gunwale, clawing into the deck.
Tiara was not to be captured so easily. She shouted to her men, “Draw your weapons, matey, and save the Siren. Take no prisoners!”
The sailors on the Victory pulled the two boats together.
The attack began with the Brits on the main deck and the quarterdeck of the Victory, firing their rifles down at the panicking pirates. As was standard military practice, a row of soldiers would fire, step back and allow a second wave of rifles to line up. The first row would then reload. The pirates returned fire, but before they could reload, the Brits dropped the gangplanks and began to invade the Siren’s deck.
As the first Tommy boarded the ship, the hand-to-hand fighting began. The pirates were outmanned and overwhelmed. Tiara rushed into the fray. She remembered dispatching several British soldiers; she was an excellent swordsman after all, but they outnumbered her. At some point in the melee, her right hand had been badly slashed, so she reverted to using her left.
Confronted by three soldiers wielding bayonets, she slashed and thrusted as fast as she could. Cutting off the hand of the closest man, dropped her assailant numbers to two. Ducking under a thrust attack of the second soldier, she was able to drag her cutlass across his stomach and watch his insides fall out. The final foe was a bit savvier and waited for her lunge so that he could parry and attack. Side-stepping her thrust, he countered with an upward slice of his bayonet, catching her on the right knee and dragging up to her hip. A vicious cut opened and she staggered.
Her last memory was standing on the gunwale, swatting and stabbing as fast as she could, and then a stab into her right arm. She slashed back but could no longer hold her balance and fell into the sea.
Amid this dream, there was a stabbing pain that shot through her right leg. It brought her back to consciousness. Looking up through groggy eyes, she was met with the sight of a red coat soldier, his bayonet in her face, screaming for her to wake up. As he yelled at her, he landed several savage kicks to her injured leg.
A sardonic smile crossed her lips as she embraced her inevitable death.
“I’m not going down without a fight, you scurvy dog.” She screamed. Using all of the strength that she had left in her body, she rolled to her right and thrust the jagged branch toward her attacker. The soldier saw the motion and held his hand out to block it, but the ragged end of the severed branch managed to hit him directly between his index and middle fingers, splitting his hand open along the bones. He screamed in pain and dropped his rifle. Tiara grabbed the weapon and twisted the bayonet off the end. Lunging forward, she drove the tip upwards through the soldier’s stomach and into his heart. His face went white with surprise, and he pulled away, grabbing at his gut. She held tight to the bayonet and pulled it out of his body. He fell backwards and died on the sand.
His scream, however, had alerted the others. Tiara rolled onto her stomach and, ignoring her intense pain, began to crawl as deep into the brush as she could get; her right leg dragging behind her, the bayonet grasped tightly in her left hand.
Before the other soldiers could arrive, she had managed to disappear deep into the bushes. The shrubs scraped and scratched her already battered body, but she ignored the pain. It was a minor intrusion considering the more severe injuries that she carried. From behind her, she heard soldiers yelling.
“McGiven is dead. Somehow that whore got the better of him.” One of them yelled.
“Where on God’s green earth did she go? Spread out, we know she’s close by. And watch your backsides, men.” She recognized the distinctive voice as the sergeant’s.
Her crawl continued as she attempted to put as much space between herself and the enemy. With one last agonizing effort, she entered the clearing at the center of the atoll. Before her lay a beautiful, deep blue lagoon. She had enjoyed these type of waters many times and longed for the cooling feel of immersion.
“Not this time. As much as I’d like to. Sorry, old girl.” She mumbled with regret.
Tiara looked over the terrain hoping to find a cave or someplace that she might be able to hide. There was nothing but beach. Crawling out further would only expose her more, so she pushed back under the cover of the foliage.
Tiara curled into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and tried to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Her head shook as the reality that there was no way out, embraced her. Barring a miracle, the Brits would find her.
Accepting this reality was oddly soothing.
If I have to go out, I guess this is the way to do it. I had a great run. I can’t complain.
To her left, she heard the trampling of vegetation as the soldiers gutted their way through the brush. She ducked lower into the ground. She heard them on her left and then on her right. They were yelling to each other as they moved.
“Anything over your way, Willingham? Ya see any signs?” One of them called out.
“Nothing so far. She has to be here though.” The other replied.
Tiara pulled herself into a tighter ball. She shook her head and grimaced. She had the bayonet but knew that it was sorely insufficient against multiple attackers.
Behind her, more soldiers were careening through the brush. It was only a matter of moments before they stumbled upon her.
For a moment, fear engulfed her. For the first time in her life, she shivered. Then, she snorted out disgust. Acknowledging this fear embarrassed her. This little ball of quivering flesh was not Tiara Jewel. She would not allow them to find her in this state. With renewed courage, Tiara uncoiled her body, grabbed the bayonet, and crawled toward the lagoon. Breaking into the clearing, she weakly climbed to her feet. Standing as tall as she could, hobbling on one leg, she yelled out in her hoarse, scratchy voice, “I’m over her, you sons of the devil! Come get me if you dare.”
In a panic, the soldiers emerged from the brush.
“I got her. Here she is!” Yelled the first redcoat.
As the others broke into the clearing, they all raised their rifles and moved toward her, both from the front and behind.
Tiara stood wobbling and barely able to stay upright. She held the bayonet in front of her, spinning in an attempt to protect herself from an attack on all sides. She snarled at them with hatred, tottering on her one leg, trying not to fall.
The sergeant was the first to step toward her. His movements were strong and confident. She lunged toward him with her weapon, but managed to move only one step before she fell to the ground.
The sergeant stepped over her and dropped his foot on her left arm, pinning it, along with the bayonet, to the sand.
He pointed his rifle at her head and laughed.
A nasty scowl shot from her face. She yelled, “You ain’t no hero, you slimy bastard! You’re just the lucky whoreson who gets to kill the mighty Tiara Jewel.”
The burly soldier laughed again and said, “Well, you harlot, you’re dead right about that.”
Without another word, he pulled the trigger, and her face disappeared from her body.
As a result of the capture and execution of Tiara Jewel, the captain of the HMS Victory was awarded the title of knight by Queen Victoria and gifted a large plot of land where he retired with his family. The sergeant who pulled the trigger was promoted and spent the next thirteen years at sea before dying from scurvy.
But it was Tiara Jewel who had the last word.
The HMS Victory had served the British Empire for 247 years before being turned into a museum in Portsmouth. The stories are plentiful and frightening. Legend has it that Tiara Jewel haunts the HMS Victory to this very day. Many sailors have spoken of sightings and the strange things that happened aboard that vessel.
While she was still in service, sailors refused to sleep in certain parts of the ship, afraid of Tiara Jewel’s lustful vengeance. The lore grew with each odd occurrence. There were dozens of stories of sailors disappearing, falling mysteriously overboard, or developing illnesses that would kill them. Once decommissioned and turned into a museum, tourists often commented on strange sounds, blurry figures floating in the captain’s cabin, and an unexplained chill that would run through them.
The legend of Tiara Jewel spread far and wide. Parents used the stories of her evil deeds to scare their children into behaving. Tavern owners hung signs of recognition that the infamous Tiara Jewel had slept, eaten, or drunk at their establishments.
In the annals of history, there were many fierce and horrible pirates, but none were more revered than the indomitable Tiara Jewel.