“Jim!” The face of Braziliano, clouded over with the glaze of alchohol, brightened up in recognition as he saw his fellow pirate approach him.

“Jim, my friend,” repeated the drunk, but still dread pirate. He raised his bottle and took a long swig of rum, before wrapping his arm around Jim. His eyes fell upon the old bottle that Jim had, and hunched over, in a fit of laughter.

His breath reeked of alcohol as he spoke again, nearly in the pirate’s face. 

“Jim, Jim. Are ye too broke to throw ol’ Sammy boy there another shillin’ for a bottle o’ rum? Your ol’ captain not payin’ enough for you, eh?” With another exaggerated motion, he chugged the bottle of rum before thrusting the bottle of gold-colored liquor into the crewman’s hands. 

“Well, I got a proposal for ya Jim, and you don’t go around and be objectin’ about it neither, or I’ll have yer head. Word has it that this D’Oyley, the [i]new[/i] gov’ner in Port Royal, might be, let’s say, sympathetic to our cause. Now you see, I’m all settled in nice here in Tortuga for a bit, so I want ye to get me ship provisioned –be fast about it, no more than half’a fortnight—and see how close Eddy is in with us. Ye got command for a week, Jim.” 

Braziliano gave another hearty laugh. “And that means celebration, Jim! I’ll buy ye a whole round, as much as ye want!”

---

The HMS Endymion, resupplied, and refreshed, was two days out of Port Royal. With topgallants set and a favorable wind blowing, the English frigate was fast on its way to the coast of Tortuga. On a fair Thursday evening, Captain Hampshire and her ship had come across a small pirate sloop, armed but no match for the heavily armed warship. Its bearing indicated it was headed for Tortuga, likely fat with plunder after a successful raid on local shipping. The sighting of its masts would start the motions of Fir’s grand plans for the capture of Tortuga.

“One shot will do, Mr. Anson. Let’s not waste powder and shot.”

“Yessir. One shot, Mr. Johnson,” yelled the gunnery officer, after tipping his hat in acknowledgement of his captain. A moment later, a shot rang out, and a 12-pound shot flew over the bow of the pirate vessel. 

Like clockwork, the enemy vessel faltered slightly, and then hove over to port in surrender. A moment later, the infamous black flag of the sloop slowly lowered, in jerky fashion to signify the end of the short-lived engagement. There would, naturally, be no other outcome for the pirates in the face of the devastating broadside of a 32-gun frigate. 

“Well done, Mr. Johnson,” said Fir, standing on the starboard railing of the frigate. Robert Hudson was alongside, as was midshipman John Anson, who had recently been granted duties as a gunnery officer. 

“The glass, if you please Robert,” continued the captain in her usual cool demeanor. With a nod, Mr. Hudson, who had been looking through his glass, handed over the small brass instrument the captain. “Do you fancy that vessel large enough for our purposes?” whispered the first lieutenant, as Fir looked through the glass. 

The sloop was definitely a smaller vessel, perhaps 21 meters in length. It was named the [i]Orient Fortune[/i], and from what Fir could see, was probably rated at eight guns, probably 6-pounders. For all intents and purposes, it was a fine ship, and certainly one of the vessels that had been a thorn in the side of Port Royal shipping. With a silent yes, she nodded. The [i]Orient Fortune[/i] would be a fine vessel indeed.

“Mr. Anson, get you and your men ready and prepare a prize crew. I want all the pirates off that vessel and aboard by sundown and the sloop alongside in an hour. Chop to it, we don’t have all day for you gaze at a little dinghy with your spyglass now, Mr. Anson!”