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Port Royal, Jamaica .
    1708 AD
     
    “ Aye, me lad, ‘ave a seat next to me and listen th’ true story of th’ Banshee’s Cry,” the man said, addressing the young crewman approaching his table.
    “ You know the Banshee’s Cry Legend, do you?” The boy replied with a hint of disbelief as he rested his back on the stool. In every tavern around the known world there were dozen of people claiming to know details of what had happened at Cayman Brac. All of them were just calling for attention, or to gain confidence on greenhorns like him. The boy was disappointed his soon-to-be captain was another of those braggarts.
    “ Aye. I know th’ legend ‘cause I ‘ave seen it m’self. I was there when th’ Plague ended once fer all,” said the oldster, acknowledging the note of disbelief in the younger lad.
    They were all the same these young landlubbers coming on the account with star-crossed eyes, dreaming of adventure in this age of rebirth. Envisioning the growing war between the Northern Alliance and the League of the Antilles as a quick way to glory and wealth. They knew nothing how the New World came to be, of those who had sacrificed their own lives to build it, and mostly, ignored the Plague’s truth. They curled their nose at the smell of Port Royal alleys and docks, forgetting about the pleasant fragrance of the sea carried by westerly winds. They had not lived in a world perpetually immersed in rot and decay.
    “ So, Master, go on. I’m curious. You say you were there,” mouthed the young mariner eyeing the small wooden chest resting under the man’s feet, “But where, exactly?”
    The captain gazed at him intently, and then gulped down a draft.
    “ Mabouya’s Well,” he said, almost whispering, that simple word still sending a shock down his spine.
    “ Mabouya’s Well? Never heard about it, Master. What’s this? A place in the Devil’s Sea, a cay? Or …” he hazarded, “a tavern?”
    The old mariner pierced the boy with steel-gray eyes.
    “ Blimey! Ain’t believin’ me, ain’tcha? Fine, keep listenin’ to bilge scum th’ Roundheads pump every day into th’ Recovery Effort. Come tomorrow, Bucko, you’ll be pumping water yerself from th’ Revenge’s belly. Avast! Listen to me story and I promise ye’ll see with yer deadlights th’ proof of what me talking.”
    “ With all due respect, Sir, I do not trust the Puritans, that’s why I left New Hampshire colony and joined the Southern Royalists! Before discovering the ruse behind false promises,” exclaimed the boy, his usual fine skin turning red by rekindled memories.
    “ So shut up. Go to th’ bar and ‘ave this jug filled again. Then, I’ll tell ye a tale so grisly and scary ye ain’t goin’ to sleep fer months. And ye be wary, ‘cause the ghosts of those times still haunt us today, no matter what th’ Northerners say. The Marauders aren’t a bunch of crazies, and the Black Brig still plies these waters.”
    “ The Black Brig, Master? A fairy tale?” The green crewman interrupted. That old scurvy dog was adding fables to legends. How come this man was still allowed to serve on a League ship?
    “ Aye, ‘tis a legend. Yet, ‘tis also true. Cause that ship sailed under a different name once. Her name was Banshee’s Cry, and she was a fine ship. She was … my ship.”
    ****

25 M iles off the coast of Inagua .
    1676 AD
     
    “ Bring her about handsomely, now!” Captain Drake shouted to be heard above his boarding crew’s cries. Smoke engulfed the prow of the Banshee’s Cry, as the brig came closer to the wounded Spanish merchantman.
    “ Avast! Moor that pregnant sow before she goes adrift,” echoed McTavish below, snapping curses in Gaelic. Drake looked at his quartermaster amused. McTavish had been with him since the beginning. An almost gnomish creature, with ash colored hair crowing a childlike face, Mac - as everybody called him - had a direct and honest personality and everyone respected him for this. He was