Solomon Key

Prologue

Peter Archer, or Red Pete as he was known to his crewmates, crept silently across the deck of the Blue Crane, which lay at anchor in sight of Port Royal. It was a moonless night, and the crew lay in drunken slumber after a night in port. Even the captain had imbibed to excess. This might be Pete’s only chance.

He crept belowdecks, making his way down to the hold where Blue Crane’s human cargo was bound. His heart raced. Could he really do this? Why was he risking his life for someone he barely knew?

“He’s your friend,” he whispered to himself. “Maybe your only friend.”

He smelled the cargo hold long before he reached it. The foul odor of humans kept at close quarters for a prolonged period. The foul stench of sweat mingled with the stink of feces, urine, and stale air. He retched as he unlocked the hold and clambered down into the midst of the Africans who would soon be sold at auction.

Caesar was awake. His dark skin rendered him nigh invisible down here in the blackness of the hold. He sensed, rather than saw, Pete.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. His English was improving rapidly, but his accent remained heavy.

“Don’t talk.”

Pete unlocked the chains that bound Caesar’s wrists and ankles, and helped the big man to stand.

“Follow me.” He led Caesar out of the hold and up to the next deck.

“We’re getting out of here,” he said softly. “Everyone’s drunk. Even the captain. We’ll steal a boat and lose ourselves in Port Royal.”

“What will we do?”

Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. Sign on to a pirate’s crew, maybe? They won’t care who we are or where we’re from.”

Caesar nodded.

“I must have my ring.”

“Your what?

“My ring. The one the captain took from me. I must have it back.”

Pete remembered the ring. It was very old. Not worth anything, the captain had said, yet he had worn it ever since taking it from the captured African warrior.

“The captain has it.”

“Show me the way,” Caesar said.

Pete ran a hand through his stringy red hair. What was Caesar thinking? “Are you mad? If he wakes, we’re both of us done for.”

Caesar grabbed him by the arm. Damn, the man was strong. “He will not wake. Show me.”

Trembling with fear, Pete guided Caesar to the captain’s cabin and stood watch, determined to leap overboard if anyone discovered him. After what felt like an eternity, Caesar returned. He wore his ring and a satisfied smile.

“He will not wake again. Let us go.”

Every little noise sounded like a gunshot to Pete. The soft pad of their feet on the deck, every breath. He was certain his heart must sound like a snare drum to everyone on board.

Finally, blessedly, they found themselves in the dinghy rowing for port. Caesar had never rowed before, but he caught on quickly, driving them through the water with powerful strokes Pete could never hope to match.

Just as he was beginning to relax, the moon broke through the clouds, and he saw movement on board Blue Crane.

“There they are!” a voice called.

A shot rang out, the slug splashing in the water just feet from their boat.

Caesar stopped rowing.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing? They’re shooting at us!”

Caesar stared at the ship, seemingly unaware of Pete’s presence. He touched the ring on his hand and whispered something.

Pete jerked upright as a cloud of mist surrounded them. Shouts from the ship told him the crew members were as confused as he.

The wind began to rise, whipping the calm waters into a frenzy of whitecaps. Pete grabbed hold of the gunwale and began to pray.

A roar filled his ears, the shouts of the crew turning to screams. He heard the sound of ripping canvas, the snap of broken boards.

And then silence.

He opened his eyes to see calm waters. No sign of Blue Crane. He turned to Caesar, unable to speak.

“Now,” Caesar said, returning to the oars, “we will go be pirates.”