Historical Fiction / Adventure
Date Published: August 2015
In
an age ruled by iron men, in a world of new discovery and Spanish gold,
a young Irishwoman named Mary rises from the ashes of her broken
childhood with ships and men-at-arms under her command. She and her
loyal crew prowl the Caribbean and prosper in the New World for a time
until the ugly past Mary has fled from in the old one finds her.
Across
the great ocean to the east, war is coming. The King of Spain is
assembling the most powerful armada the world has ever seen - an
enormous beast - to invade England and depose the Protestant “heretic
queen.” To have any chance against the wealth and might of Spain,
England will need every warship, she will need every able captain. To
this purpose, Queen Elizabeth spares Mary from the headman’s axe for
past sins in exchange for her loyalty, her ships and men.
Based
on true historical events, this is a tale about war, adventure, love
and betrayal. This is a story about vengeance, this is a tale of
heartbreak…
Recent Praise for The Butcher's Daughter:
"...
a pleasurable and action-packed read ... a delicious spin to the
otherwise tired clichés of male captains ... the joy of the open seas -
as well as the danger churning below - pulses throughout this
rip-roaring, hearty tale of the high seas." - Kirkus Reviews
"...
an entertaining read ... full of authentic historical events ... a
defiant story, a narrative of strong will and perseverance which
ultimately plummets to a tragic end." - Readers' Favorite
"... a historic adventure ... a beautiful romance ..." - Bargain Book Reviews (5x5 Stars)
"A
wonderful novel in the best tradition of maritime literature ...
authentic and rich with details, the characters are alive and
passionate, and the plot is full of thrilling action, intense drama, and
stunning surprises ... [an] exhilarating adventure ... an unforgettable
journey ..." - The Columbia Review
Profanity - Moderate
Sex - Moderate
Violence – Heavy
EXCERPT
A
man - I cannot say if he was wise or not - once said to me as he gently
stroked my hair, as he slowly poured honeyed words into my ear with
false affection: “Hush dear child, hush. ‘Tis best if you lay still.
‘Tis best you accept this gift I give you now without complaint my
lovely, golden dove.”
I never knew this man’s name. Long years have passed since I heard those vile words. They haunt me still.
Blood. I saw a lot of blood as I stepped into my father’s shop that night.
I
suppose the matter had to do with a debt unpaid, money owed to one clan
or another. When I heard the voices of strange men inside our home
arguing with my father, I had rushed downstairs out of curiosity with a
candle in my hand, dressed only in my nightgown and barefoot.
And
when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw two brutes holding my
father down against his wooden cutting table while a third man, a tall,
sinewy fellow standing in front of him, stabbed him over and over again
in the arms, the chest and stomach with a long knife. Then the tall man
tossed his knife in the air with one hand and caught it by the handle
with the other, as if he was performing some parlor trick, and slashed
my father’s throat wide open with one, elegant swing. Sprays of blood
spurted across the room. I watched my father’s eyes flutter for a bit
before they closed on him forever.
But I am well accustomed with blood and gore. I am the butcher’s daughter.
No
doubt I stared at my father’s three murders wide-eyed, confused, even
in horror. But I did not scream. I did not cry out. I did not look or
call for any help. I buried any urge to panic.
The
tall, sinewy man with the knife fled when he saw me. His two companions
did not. They had unfinished business. They released their grip on my
father. They let his limp body slip to the floor with a dull thud and
then slowly moved towards me - all smiles.
I was but twelve or so. I had never known a man before that day.
I
cannot say if the man who commanded me to lie still after he forced me
to the floor next to my father’s torn body, the man who thought of me as
his lovely, golden dove, was wise or not for I only knew him for the
briefest of moments. You see, that man died in my arms on top of me not
long after he spoke those very words to me.
My
memory of that night is clouded in my mind. No, that is not quite true.
I have chosen to wrap that memory in cloud. But I can, if I wish to,
remember that night - even now - with crystal clarity, in the most
striking detail.
Aye,
the man on top of me died in my arms that day. He died after he had
torn my nightgown open, after he had thrust himself inside of me - he
died after I removed his dagger from his belt and plunged it deep into
his black heart. I can still hear the air escaping from his lungs. I can
still smell the rot on his breath. I can still see the pupils of his
eyes rolling up behind his skull as his life slipped away from him
forever.
His
companion had fared a little better. I stabbed him, skewered him
really, through the mouth when he leaned over to pull his dying friend
off me. The blade pierced one cheek and sliced through the other. The
man screamed and fled outside, running wildly down New Market Street
with the dagger still lewdly sticking out of both sides of his mouth.
Not a mortal wound perhaps, but a man with scars on each cheek like that
is not a hard man to find as you might imagine. Time and patience is
all that is needed. A little time, a little patience, and you can easily
find a man like that with matching scars at your leisure.
I
can say, with absolute certainty, that this day was the last day of my
childhood. But it was also the day-of-days - for this was the first day
of my liberation, of my awakening, as well.
I
had forewarned her gentle majesty of course. I had told her that a
highborn lady, especially a queen, should not hear of such things so
foul and impure.
But
she ignored my warning. She leaned close to me and squeezed my hand
reassuringly. “It is, dear sister,” she told me flatly, “a pitiless and
putrid world ruled by pitiless and putrid men, men who think of us as
little more than chattel. We would know your story. From start to
finish, we would know how it is you came to rule over such cruel and
loathsome men in a man’s cruel and loathsome world.”
Yes,
it is true. Sitting in a chair across from me in my drab lodgings in
the Tower of London, a place of luxury compared to the dungeon I had
only days before been released from, the great and mighty Queen of
England addressed me, a lowly commoner and a thief, as her sister...
My lads forced the big man down to his knees before me. They stretched his arms out taut and held him firmly in place for me.
“Why,
Captain Dowlin,” I said and laughed, “you’ve gone and pissed yourself I
see! You’ve gone and soiled my deck! And my crew scrubbed these planks
down with holystones just this morning. They put their backs into it let
me tell you. They scrubbed this deck down clean.”
“Please,”
Dowlin pleaded, whimpering with spittle and snot running down his long
beard. His eyes were nearly swollen shut from the good drubbing my men
had given him. “Please, please, please...” he repeated over and over
again.
“Please?”
I asked. “Is that all you can say? How pathetic. I pray you can beg far
better than that, especially when it is your own, pitiful life hanging
in the balance. Come now, I know you can do better and I promised my
lads a bit of entertainment tonight before supper.”
“Please, my lady, please spare my life. For mercy’s sake. I have gold. I have much gold!”
“For
mercy’s sake?” I asked. “No, I think not for mercy’s sake. But for gold
you say? Well now, you’ve piqued my curiosity there. And how much
glittering gold is your miserable life worth to you, Dowlin?”
“Anything, name your price!”
I
looked over at what was left of Dowlin’s bloodied and beaten crew
herded around the main mast in a tight circle. They were bound in
chains, intently watching my every move, soaking in my every word. After
today they would be my men.
My own lads knew the drill. They forced Dowlin down lower, exposing the back of his soft neck to me.
I stood to the side and drew my sword. “The price Dowlin - is your head!”
“Nooooooooooooo…”
Dowlin screamed just before I cleaved my way through flesh and bone.
With one, clean stroke, his severed head rolled grotesquely across my
deck until it came to rest at the feet of his defeated crew.
And
then I pointed my sword at them, the bright, steel blade now dripping
with Dowlin’s fresh blood. “As my men will vouch,” I told them, “I’m no
purveyor of lies and because I do not lie I cannot say to you that
killing gives me no pleasure. Your master was a wretched pig and it gave
me great pleasure to kill him. Now you know why some call me Bloody
Mary. Now you serve me and this ship - or not. You are free to choose.”
The
upshot of my touch of drama was grand. The prisoners all at once
dropped to their knees and groveled at my feet. They all at once pledged
their undying loyalty to me.
“Master Gilley!”
“Aye, Madam?”
“Introduce the new lads to our ways.”
“With pleasure, Mum, with pleasure!”
Thomas
Gilley was my rock. He had been with me from the beginning. For nearly
two years we had crisscrossed the vast and perilous oceans together. For
the past year we had sailed under Dowlin’s cruel shadow.
“And our course, Mum?”
“The new lads will tell you - gladly now I should think - what our new heading is to be.”
And
by that of course I meant that Dowlin’s men would tell us where
Dowlin’s gold was stashed away, or pay the awful price for their
silence.
As
my men went about their labors, securing the heavy guns and making
repairs to shattered planks, to torn lines and sail, I went below to my
great cabin, content with a good day’s work. Dowlin had thoughtlessly,
and without good purpose, brutalized any who had crossed his path. Men,
women, children, he cared not. Yes, Dowlin was a wretched, stinking pig
who often killed for sport. I had done mankind a favor by dispatching
him. But in my world, Dowlin had also been a lord and master, a prince.
His death I knew could not be cheaply bought.
“An
inspiring performance, Mum!” a voice called out, startling me as I
stepped into my great cabin. The voice popped out from behind the door,
closed it quickly and slid the bolt back inside the socket.
I
would not give the intruder the satisfaction of knowing that he had,
for once, caught me unawares. “I’m glad you were amused,” I told him
flatly.
He slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close against him. “Do you,” he asked with a smile, “despise all men?”
“All
but one or two,” I replied and kissed him lightly on the lips. Then I
reached down between his legs and grabbed him by his privates. He was
already stiff and eager. I couldn’t help myself and moaned with
anticipation.
“Only one or two?” he inquired. “Dare I ask who?”
“Ah,
you are safe for now my dearest,” I answered, batting my eyes
flirtatiously. “Well, at least for a night or two. You have skills,
remarkable skills worth keeping.”
“Aye,
it was a splendid day indeed. I’ve always been exceptionally good at
fighting, equally talented with sword, knife, a musket or explosives. I
suppose one could say I was born to it.”
“You
are a great warrior, James Hunter,” I replied honestly and squeezed him
even harder. “But those are not the skills that interest me tonight. I
dare say you have other skills that I’ve taken quite a fancy to, skills I
wish to test.”
“Ah,
now, that is why I’m here my lady,” Hunter replied and flashed his
brilliant smile for me. “Not too tired from all that killing?”
“Shut up and take me you fool. Ravish me - I am hot for your wicked touch…”
Hunter obliged me gladly, with all he had to give.
I
stood on the poop deck next to MacGyver, Michael MacGyver, my best man
at the helm, watching the morning sun, dressed in brilliant red, rise
majestically above the sea’s shimmering green waters. A good, flowing
wind filled our sails and the ship was cruising along nicely. We had
Dowlin’s magnificent ship in tow and I could hear my men with their saws
and hammers working to repair her shattered rudder. It was a glorious
morning. It was a hallelujah morning.
“Good
day, Mum,” Hunter said with a mischievous grin as he made his way up
the companionway and handed me a mug of steaming, black coffee. “Sleep
well my lady?”
“I did indeed, Master Hunter, I did indeed. And you?”
“I have no complaints. I feel most refreshed.”
From
the corner of my eye, I could see MacGyver crack a thin smile. A ship
is a small place, too small for secrets. The whole crew knew that Hunter
and I were lovers.
I
savored the coffee’s rich aroma for a bit before I took a sip. “What
course, MacGyver? Did old Gilley even give you one before he retired to
his hammock or are you sailing aimlessly about on the open sea to only
God knows where?”
“We sail for the Na Sailtí, my lady.”
“Ahhh, the Saltee Islands,” I said. “I thought as much.”
No
one had ever accused Dowlin of being clever. The Saltee Islands, lying
just off Kilmore Quay between Waterford and Wexford, was an obvious
choice. The islands were remote and uninhabited and not far from
Dowlin’s base at Youghal. Still, without a map or guide, one could roam
those small islands for years and not find any buried treasure.
Hunter
grabbed my mug of coffee from my hand and took a sip. “Dowlin’s
brothers,” he said soberly, staring absently out at the horizon,
“ghastly brutes the pair of them, will want revenge when they hear of
what we’ve done, Mary. Righteous or not, the gods always exact a price
for a killing.”
Only
Hunter and Gilley ever addressed me by my given name. Mary had been my
mother’s name. But I did not know her. She had died when I was very
young. They say she had been a rare beauty. They say that before my
father took her in and married her, she had been a whore.
“No doubt,” I said evenly, stealing a secret moment to admire Hunter’s exquisite face in the soft, morning light.
He
had not yet shaved. He wore no hat and had neglected braiding his long,
black hair into a queue. The breezes toyed with the loose strands,
brushing them across his face. His eyes were striking blue. His chin was
square and strong. I thought him the most handsome man in all of
Ireland, perhaps in all of Christendom.
Hunter used his fingers to comb the tangled mess off his forehead. He turned to face me and gave me a puzzled look.
“Out with it, Hunter,” I demanded.
“I’d rather see it comin’ than get it in the back. That’s all, my lady.”
“I agree,” MacGyver chimed in, “with Hunter.”
“You
agree with Hunter do you now?” I asked mockingly as I placed my hands
on my hips. “As if I give a damn what you two agree on! Do I smell a
mutiny brewing aboard my ship?”
Hunter
and MacGyver exchanged knowing glances and chuckled. As every man in my
crew knew, any one of them could speak his mind freely and without
fear. Honest speech was protected by one of the Ten Rules, though
precisely which one I doubt any of us knew.
Then
Gilley, climbing up the ladder from the main deck, stepped onto the
quarter deck carrying a basket of bread from the ship’s galley. The
bread was freshly baked, still warm and smelled delicious.
“Mutiny
is it?” Gilley asked while handing out his loaves. “Never trusted the
likes of these two, Mum. Be happy to gut them both for you after they
finish their breakfast. I’ll hang their worthless carcasses off the main
yardarm to rot. Let them serve as a warnin’ to all other would be
mutineers.”
“Hunter,” I said, “is worried about Dowlin’s brothers.”
“Ah,
and well he should be, Mum,” replied Gilley with a serious nod. “Well
he should be. Them two aren’t no better than Dowlin. Worse maybe. An
ill-tempered litter sprung from the angry womb of an ill-tempered
bitch.”
“Aye,” I agreed. “So gentlemen, we must be the first to strike. And when we strike we must do so with deadly purpose.”
I
stopped along the narrow path for a moment to catch my breath after the
long and strenuous climb. I could see my ship peacefully riding anchor
in the cove below. Phantom was a five hundred ton, French-built nao,
ships renowned for their strength and speed. She was both square and
lateen-rigged and carried eighteen great guns cast from solid bronze - a
mix of falconets and sakers mounted on rolling carriages stood neatly
against her bulwarks like soldiers on parade. And fixed to iron
pedestals mounted along her rails were another thirty swivels for
close-quarter fighting. Sitting next to Phantom was Dowlin’s larger
ship, a fine, Dutch-built man-o-war displacing six hundred tons or
better, not as swift as a nao but she was well-armed and built for
rugged war. The sight of the stubby noses of her guns protruding through
the open gunports - a mix of periers, sakers and falconets, twenty-four
great guns in all - sent a tingle up my spine. She too carried a goodly
number of swivels. What a handsome sight both ships made together!
The
man-o-war had been Dowlin’s flagship. Now Dowlin’s flagship was my
flagship. Under Dowlin, men knew her as Medusa’s Head. And just to make
certain that any who laid eyes on her knew exactly what ship she was, a
hideous replica of the witch’s head, with deadly snakes for hair and
sharp fangs for teeth, adorned her high prow. No sailor roaming across
the open sea could ever gaze upon that carved monstrosity without
freezing in their tracks. As I resumed my climb up the cliff, I decided I
would rechristen Dowlin’s ship. I would rename her Falling Star after
the shooting star I had seen streaking outside my father’s butcher’s
shop at the very moment my father’s assailants had pried my legs apart
and deflowered me. And then I’d pitch the witch’s grotesque likeness
into the sea.
After
we reached the summit of the cliff the land flattened out before us and
we could see the Irish Sea in all directions for miles. Visibility was
excellent. There was not a single sail in sight.
The
island was little more than a desolate pile of rock and sand covered
over in wild grass and patches of scrub brush. The only inhabitants we
saw were small lizards scurrying about and seabirds, birds of many kinds
and colors. Countless numbers of birds squawked and chirped at each
other all across the island.
Armed
with shovels and pick-axes, my new recruits led the way under a bright
and sizzling sun. They were clearly fidgety and reluctant to press on,
fearing I suppose that they were marching to their own graves. I gave
them no reason to think otherwise. We marched in single file towards the
southern tip of the island until we came upon a cluster of boulders
surrounded by a thicket of scraggly thorn bushes.
“This
is the place?” I asked the lead man after he stopped and surveyed the
area around us. I addressed this man first because I had seen the
deference the others had given him. He had also been the first to tell
Gilley where we could find Dowlin’s treasure.
He
hesitated before answering me. I gave him a hard look and then took a
moment to consider his men. “Did you, or did you not all swear your
allegiance to me?”
“We did, Mum,” the lead man answered.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Flannigan, Mum, Joseph Flannigan from Kinsale in County Cork.”
“Well,
Master Joseph Flannigan from Kinsale in County Cork, I did not come all
this way, I did not go to all this trouble, just so I could kill you. I
don’t need to kill you. And besides, I don’t murder unarmed men.”
Flannigan lowered his head. “Beg pardon, Mum, but Dowlin was unarmed.”
“Ah,
a fair point you make there Master Flannigan,” I said. “Touché. But you
are mistaken. I didn’t murder Dowlin. I executed him.”
I
turned to address Flannigan’s men. “I know Master Gilley explained
things to you the other night and explained them to you clearly. Killing
or harming innocent or helpless men, women or children is strictly
forbidden. It is a violation of our Ten Rules. Now it is hot and this
island is no paradise. Let us to business shall we? You can help me
recover Dowlin’s plunder - and take your rightful share - or I can leave
you all here to live on birds’ eggs until some fishing trawler happens
upon you. But I will not kill you.”
Flannigan
shook his head. “Even if what you say is true Lady Mary, we are still
all dead men. Dowlin has two brothers, the Twins. They know us and they
will find us and kill us all for helping you.”
Hunter
took a step towards Flannigan and rested his hand on Flannigan’s
shoulder. “Lad, you and your mates are most likely dead men already even
if you don’t help us. Once you reach home, Dowlin’s brothers will find
and kill you all just because you didn’t die with Dowlin.”
Flannigan’s men exchanged looks all around. Heads started bobbing up and down.
Flannigan
clenched his teeth; he stared at me with eyes as cold as stone. “We
won’t be the only game the Twins will want to feast on, Madam.”
I
answered Flannigan with a bold and cocky smile. “Aye, the Twins, the
Devil’s own offspring to be sure and far more dangerous than Dowlin ever
thought to be. They’re more dangerous because they’re smart. The Twins
and Dowlin were only half-brothers I hear, same she-bitch mother but
begotten from different seed.”
“You know them then?” asked Flannigan.
“Not
well. I saw them once tie a man down and slowly skin him alive. The
poor devil’s only crime was to prudently pitch some Dowlin cargo
overboard during a treacherous gale to save his ship and crew from
foundering.”
Flannigan
nodded. “Aye, I’ve seen some of their grizzly work up close.” Then he
baited me. “One brother is a big, ugly bastard, strong as an ox. The
other is a bit prettier, but just as big and no less strong.”
“Ah,
Master Flannigan, you wish to test me? I respect that. No, the Twins
are nearly exact copies of each other. One is challenged to tell them
apart even close-up. They’re both huge, a head taller than any man I’ve
ever laid eyes on. But one brother is a half hand taller than the other
and as for appearances, well, not my taste, but they are hardly ugly.”
“Apologies,
Mum. Right you are. I fear your man Hunter here is right too. The Twins
will come looking for us even if we refuse to help you. What then?”
“You let me worry about that. First things first. Now, shall we dig?”
Flannigan
pointed to a pitted, reddish brown rock in the middle of patch of wild
flowers that seemed somehow out of place. The rock, I soon realized, was
not indigenous to the island. I grabbed a shovel from Flannigan’s hand
and started scooping out the first shovelfuls of dirt and sand myself.
Mark McMillin is a general counsel for a company in the aviation industry. His home is in the Atlanta, GA area.
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