Warnings for the reader: throughout this story you will encounter some violent scenes or description of the aftermath of violence; you will also encounter racist or sexist remarks which do not represent my views, but the views of the 18th century, as I have a wish to respect realism. I sincerely hope these do not affect your reading experience.

Even at a distance, it was clear that the dark object they were looking at was the fresh wreck of a burnt ship, with a few thin strands of smoke still coming out. As there were no military conflicts in the area, he concluded it must have been, with very little place left for doubt, a pirate attack or some sort of account settling. Four days' distance away from Nassau, yet not a yard away from danger for that unfortunate ship... It was no wonder they had released him and sent him back to the Bahamas to govern again, though he assumed he did not know the full extent of the admiralty's motivations.

He had been informed, by various people, during the three years he had spent in his prison cell, of the dubious business that had been carried out in the whole West Indies under Marion Guthrie and Max's strings. Not only would have any idiot figured out that Featherstone had no actual power, leaving the English Empire at an impossibility to exert its power through its own named executives, but it seemed to have all come crashing down as soon as Marion Guthrie died, followed closely to the grave by her husband. Perhaps the authorities would have continued to tolerate the piracy and smuggling going on in the area, if it had been discreet enough, not bothering any bordering empire and keeping the flow of taxes steady. It was proven though, that not only had the two women been unable to control the outlaws and their activity, but that the feeble order that had been functioning for the past three years was so quickly dismantled, spilling out dozens of conflicts and just as many people eager to establish a new order of their own, as it naturally happens whenever and wherever there is a power void.

As they advanced closer the wreck, hoping to be able to salvage anything that could give them some clue about what had happened, they were surprised to see movement among the floating debris: it was an african man, desperately waving at them, floating on what seemed to have once been part of the ship's deck. Taking all precautions, in case it was some sort of trap, Woodes and a dozen soldiers descended in rowboats and went to save the desperate lone man and take a closer look at the charred wreck.

The smell was horrid, of blood and burned flesh, yet up close they discovered that the sight of it was worse. The ship was filled with charred corpses, some still caught mid-escape in the gun ports or whatever holes the unfortunate men could have found on the battered ship. Apart from the wooden debris and floating pieces of sail, there oddly seemed to be no corpses, or even pieces of them, floating around. As they rowed only a few feet away from the battered hull, they figured out why: all the corpses wore heavy chains. Whoever tried to escape the fire was doomed to sink under their weight, except for that one lone survivor. Had it not been for this detail, they could never have noticed the race of the deceased men, as their skin was burnt beyond telling of its colour. The lone survivor was therefore not a slave of some commander on ship, but he was simply a piece of human cargo. The naked slave, with chains still attached to his hands and feet, with one arm and half of his head burnt, cried at the sight of them approaching, with his body caving in lower and lower as they got closer to him. They pulled him onto the boat and rowed around the other side of the wreck, looking for other survivors, but there were none. The only thing of note they found, scavenging around, was a piece of the ship's Dutch flag, making him think that truly, some pirate must have upset the Dutch and possibly even some other empires, putting more pressure on England. As they brought the slave on deck, they noticed him desperately looking around for someone, possibly a peer african who could understand him, but there weren't any to be found.

"Someone get his chains off and look at those burns. Maybe we can have some use of him" Woodes commanded.

The ship raised anchor and they went back on their course, but as two men were hammering away at the chains, the slave kept repeating:

"Bah-bah!"

Nobody could understand him and they couldn't even tell what african dialect he was speaking. It certainly seemed that the slave would be useless in the absence of a translator, a matter which would be solved one they'd set foot on land.

"Bah-Bah!" the slave repeated, flailing his arms, to the desperation of the men who were trying to unchain him

The man seemed rather desperate to communicate, but nobody could tell why, since they saw absolutely no ship on the horizon, in any direction, and the man did not accompany his weird mantra with any explicative gesture. Some men tried to calm him down, hoping that he would at least understand the word "Nassau" by any chance, but quite the opposite happened as Woodes understood just what the man was trying to say:

"...Black Bart?" he asked

"Blah-Bar!" the slave confirmed, vigorously shaking his head up and down

The chains were off and the man now had a blanket to cover himself, which he curiously wrapped only around his waist as his native fashion must have been. He was eager to name Bartholomew Roberts, or "Black Bart" as some call him, and curiosity got the best of Woodes, hoping to get even more information from the slave before they landed.

"Give him pencil and paper!" Woodes said

"Sir, I doubt this man can write, even in his native tongue" a voice protested

"He probably can't" Woodes replied "but I am sure he can draw!"

The slave was given pencil and paper, but he did not seem to understand why, and he looked at them oddly, as perhaps he hasn't even seen these objects before in his unfortunate life. After he stared awkwardly at them for a few minutes, it finally looked like he understood what they wanted from him. He scribbled on the paper, awkwardly holding the pencil like one would hold a hammer or a handle. The man was clearly making an effort, as he must have been shaken from his unfortunate experience, yet after a while, he confidently handed back the paper with a nod. On the page was a very rudimentary drawing: on the top half of the page was a ship with many big curvy lines all over it, which could have only represented the slave ship on fire and on the bottom half he drew four other ships. As the slave seemed to be rather efficient at communicating in that non-verbal manner and as Woodes needed to be sure, he pointed the slave to the foremast, where the English flag was flying, then back to the four ships on the drawing. The slave then turned around the page on the clean side with a timid gesture and started drawing again. When he handed back the paper, Woodes admired the crude sketch of the pirate flag the slave had drawn: a man standing atop of two skulls.

"The african is not mistaken, he even drew Bartholomew Roberts' flag" Woodes quietly told sub lieutenant Julian Byron as they reached his quarters "so I fear the other part of it is true and that he also commands four ships"

"Well, it's half of what we have" Julian replied with optimism

"At least now we know why the admiralty is upset. We've previously known Bartholomew attacked in Africa, we've known he took a Portuguese treasure galleon and now he has upset the Dutch, all while setting camp on supposedly English soil."

"I see a reason for you to be joyful then! If you succeed, you will please a lot of people and if you fail, a lot of countries will mourn your death or your return to prison"

"If I die or return to prison, I will not be endeared by their sadness over it"

"I assume you won't, but I can't help but show you something to be optimistic about!"

"The only thing I can be optimistic about is that regardless of my failure or success here, I will have something to show for it before it ends"