Off the coast of Africa in May of 1565, John Sinclair was the quartermaster of the Drunken Cutlass as well as the ship’s physician. Fifteen years he had sailed under Captain Smythe. He had always loved the freedom the sea provided, but he had come to also truly enjoy his life as a pirate. The thrill of taking another ship or raiding a seaside settlement balanced with his attending to his wounded or sick fellow sailors, made for a strange duality, but he would not have it any other way. There were days, like today when John pondered the circumstances that led him to this life. An unfortunate altercation with the nephew of one of the Crown’s advisors, keelhauled his chances of joining the Royal Navy. Leading him to sign with the Belazzarian Trading Company. He stood in the forecastle and reminisced on those days. 

Spring 1527, John was finishing his final exam. Soon he would be an Oxford trained physician. He was confident he would be able to join the Royal Navy as a ship’s physician. It was a forgone conclusion, despite claims of nepotism regarding his father’s standing in the Royal Navy. He had highest marks, a strong body, the boxing and fencing champion of Oxford, and an inflated sense of honor. His father tried to talk him out of joining, wishing he would serve at the university or even the hospitals. He knew what war did to a man and wanted better for his son. But John felt his calling was the sea and adventure. 

As he left the college grounds, he decided to start the celebration early and head to a tavern. His father disliked his habit of mixing with the commoners. “At least spend your time with the gentry,” he would chide. But John didn’t feel he was better than anyone simply because of his birth station, he knew he was exceptional, but of character, intellect, and sport. Many commoners were as well, if you took the time to notice. 

Scott Cecil noticed John heading into Desolation Row, a seeder area of town, but in John’s opinion higher class people. Scott thought he could get some dirt on John to sully his chances with placement after graduation. John had bested him in all areas while at Oxford and he felt his proximity to the King through his uncle warranted him being given certain perks, merit be damned. So, he followed John, trying to keep enough distance to not be noticed. 

What Scott didn’t know was John spent his formative years sneaking into slums and learning thieves’ craft. John found it exhilarating, his father hated it but indulged for a short time. John noticed Scott quickly, and decided to have a little fun.  

He slowly started heading into more dangerous areas of Desolation Row. Most here knew him, and quite a few even liked him so he wasn’t bothered. Scott, unfortunately did not spend much time away from other nobles and stuck out, not only by his dress, but also his constant looking about and slightly panicked expression. 

Soon John found the seediest tavern on this side of town, the Brother’s Burden, and entered. He was friends with the tavernkeeper; a former street urchin John spent his time with when they were children. He nodded and headed straight through to the kitchens and out the back door. Scott entered and gave a double take. He was sure he saw John walk in, but where was he? He went to the bar and pompously inquired where John had gone. The tavernkeeper, Geoffrey, squinted and asked. “ ‘OO?” 

“The well-dressed man who just walked in here, you cankerous plebe!” Scott retorted angrily. 

“Don’ know wha cha gabbing ‘bout. Youse the on’y priss in ‘ere ain’t ye?” 

Scott puffed up and shouted, “I’ll have you know my uncle is advisor to the King himself. I will not be spoken to as such!” 

At this several patrons stood up and moved towards Scott. Crowding him towards the door. “We ain’t care if you was the King’s own stinkin’ seed. Ye best be leavin’ and quick like.” 

They shoved him through the door and into the street. Disheveled, but only injured in his pride he stood to see John leaning against the wall of the tavern chuckling. Scott immediately rushed towards John attempting to grapple him to the ground. But John side stepped and allowed his momentum to carry him into the wall. Scott dragged himself to his feet raised his hands in fists, and came at John again. John dodged and ducked a few blows before connecting a solid punch right to Scott’s nose with a spray of blood. Scott crumbled to the ground. 

John sighed. “Better get him some help. Can’t leave him here to be mugged or killed. Even if he is a cunt.” 

So, John flagged down a passing merchant cart and offered some coin for them to take Scott back to the university. He then went back into the Brother’s Burden to drink, gamble, and possibly find some companionship for the evening. 

The next morning, John was woken to pounding on his door. He quickly threw on his night coat and opened it. “Constable Harris, Milord. Sorry but you’ll have to come with us. Charges of attempted murder on Lord Scott Cecil.” 

“Pardon?” John asked. “We had a row but nothing serious.” 

“We’re sorry, Milord, but witnesses state you drew a blade.” 

“This is ridiculous, he attacked me and I defended myself. There were no weapons.” 

“You’ll have to come with us regardless. The magistrate will sort it out.”  

After a short trial John was acquitted, but was denied commission in in the Royal Navy citing conduct unbecoming. Scott’s uncle wrote a formal letter stating John had continuously harassed Scott through their time at Oxford. John’s father was disappointed in him. He knew John wasn’t actively being hostile, but felt he should have conducted himself with more decorum. He truly loathed Scott for outmaneuvering him for once and to the detriment of his future. Having limited options to explore the sea, John signed on with the Belazzarian Trading Company as a ship’s physician.  

John still stood in the forecastle, a smile on his lips. Thinking, “Time adds perspective to things. I thought my life was ruined, but now I am freer than ever.” He went about his duties checking on the crew and the supplies. They had enough for an Atlantic crossing, but they rarely went that far. They were currently waiting for trade ships sailing back from the Orient to relieve them of their burdensome cargo. 

The barrelman cried out from the crow’s nest, “Ship ho! Belazzarian Trading by the looks of her!” 

John perked at that, today was just full of old memories. Captain Smythe barked orders to overtake and capture. The crew were a buzz with excitement. It was not long before the Drunken Cutlass approached the trading vessel and prepare to board. John had a feeling something was off. They didn’t try to evade or fend off the approach. As they moved along side, John noticed they were running a shallow draft. They likely had little cargo. It appeared they were running with a skeleton crew.  

“English galleon half a league out!” 

John cried out to the captain, “She’s bait Captain! We’ll not stand a chance against the galleon!” 

Captain Smythe grimaced. “Turn her starboard and full sail!” 

The chase was on but the Cutlass was lighter and faster. Half a day and they lost sight of their pursuers. John approached the captain. “Heading sir?”  

“Looks like the navy is looking to take us, best we make for the West Indies. The English do not have a heavy presence there. The Spaniards have no love for the English; we may be able to lay low for a while. We’ll just have to avoid French settlements seeing as we’ve harassed their vessels as well.” 

August 1565. Early afternoon the Drunken Cutlass was approaching a sparsely inhabited island chain called the Lucayas. Both France and Spain had presence in the area, but it seemed a good place to lay low and plot their next course. John stood in the captain’s quarters. The captain had been listless as of late, not leaving his cabin for days at a time. John felt the man was possibly going senile, there had been signs even before the crossing, but held his own counsel with that. “Food supplies are running low, best go to half rations until we can find trade or plunder. Powder stores are adequate to take a merchant vessel or two if the opportunity arises”  

Captain Smythe looked up from his logs. “We’ll approach one of the islands and send parties ashore. Either to find settlements for trade or forage and hunt. The boys will need time to rest after the crossing. We’ll anchor off shore and take shifts going inland.” 

“Aye Captain, I’ll pass the orders.” John left the cabin and found Boatswain Lee. He told Lee the plans and approached the helmsman the inform him to make way for the closest island. A few hours passed; they should be in sight of land soon. A cry from the barrelman set the crew into a frenzy. 

“Ships port and starboard aft! Flying English and French and closing!” 

Captain Smythe barked orders, “Full Sail! Make for escape!” 

John stood by the captain. He turned to look for the approaching vessels. Though a bit far off they appeared to be of equal rating to the Cutlass. John thought for a moment running the scenarios through. He turned to Captain Smythe, “We could take them and their supplies, why run?” 

“I’m old and tired John; I’ve got no fight left in me. Best run and find a small place to retire and call my own. You should do the same. Or take the Cutlass once I’ve left.” The captain turned away from John and started to reissue the orders. 

The ships fast approaching, John shook his head, then decided now was as good a time as any to take the lead. Quick as lightning, he clipped the captain from behind, knocking him out. “The captain slipped and hit his head. Belay the previous orders. We’re running low on provisions men. Those ships can be taken, and their supplies can be ours. We’ve faced larger threats in the past and prevailed. Are you with me?” The helmsman side eyed John, but held his tongue. 

The men murmured amongst themselves. For half a breath, John thought he they may turn on him. Then Lee shouted, “We’ve been too long without plunder! Let’s take ‘em!” The men let out a cheer and John sighed with relief. 

“Alright men, by salt and blood! Ready all guns. Helmsman, forty-five degrees starboard! Make to rake her!” John shouted. “Master gunner, fire starboard guns when in range!” 

The Cutlass turned as the starboard pursuer closed. She turned another forty-five degrees and crossed in front of the vessel, the English by colors, and opened fire. Each cannon firing in succession as they passed. Foremast and main mast toppled. Sails of the mizzen were torn. Luck seemed to be on their side. John cried out, “Reprime and load for another volley! Fire at will! Turn for a broadside!” 

The Cutlass took a few hits during the broadside, but she was still hail. The English ship was dead in the water. The French ship was approaching, hoping to rake the Cutlass as she cleared past the English ship. John could see the timing was off, “Brace for impact! Prepare to fight man to man!” 

The bows met, jarring the men of both ships. The momentum forced the ships forward, side by side. Grappling hooks and ropes flew from both sides and sailors began to clash man to man. The French sailors were varied in experience, from green to wizened. But the Cutlass’ crew to a man were battle tested and a hell of a lot meaner.  

The Cutlass’ crew had a few casualties, but all in all it was a rout. John stood before the French captain and a few of the surviving crew who were kneeling and bound. “Put them in longboats and launch them. Move their supplies to our hold, and fire the ship. Let’s get away before any more ships arrive.” 

The sun was hanging low in the sky. John had Smythe moved to the captain’s quarters and placed in his bunk. As the Cutlass sailed away, John could see the French survivors making their way to the disabled English ship. John thought about the next heading. They should bypass the nearest island and make for another just to be safe. Some of the men were nursing wounds, he’d have to tend to them. Plus, the Cutlass took some damage. Not enough to cripple her, but they still needed a place to make repairs. A cry from the barrelman pulled John from his thoughts. “War galleon approaching fast! Flying English!” 

John stood with the helmsman and thought, “Well, shit. We can’t take a galleon at our best.” He looked to the galleon, too close to make a run for it. Must have closed from the west hiding in the glare. He addressed the crew, “Well men, you fought well. We can’t outrun her as we are and at our best we couldn’t hope to take her. I leave it to you to decide, do we raise the white and face the gallows, or do we take as many of those bastards with us to the depths as we can?” 

Lee spoke up, “We’re as good as dead either way. Why don’t we raise the white to bring them in and then loose the cannons as they come along side?” 

John did not fear death; his greatest fear was the loss of his freedom. “That should make an impactful farewell. Very well men, prime the cannons, make ready to fire when they come broadside. Raise the white!”  

The men stoically did as was ordered. Each wanting to die with salt and blood on their faces, still free rather than imprisoned and hanged. Minutes seemed to drag an eternity, as the galleon finally came along the port side. Two gun decks on each side, the upper one above the Cutlass’ main deck. As the English sailors tossed grappling lines, John shouted, “Now!” 

Gun ports opened and loosed a volley into the galleon. Half a breath later the English recovered from the perfidious attack and fired back. At that range with that many cannons, the Cutlass was shredded. Masts toppled, hull breeched and taking on water. John was clipped in the head and shoulder by the mizzen, narrowly avoiding being pinned. The crew was strewn about. Head pounding, he frantically searched for Lee, his closest friend on the ship, but found no signs. He fell back on his ass, defeated in mind, body, and spirit. He heard a booming crack as the hull split and folded on itself. Down to the depths the Cutlass sank. Debris floated to the surface, including John.  

Breaching the surface, John coughed and spat the brine from his lungs. He reached out for a plank to hold onto and float. The sun was setting; John saw the English crew making ready to leave. He bobbed and bumped into flotsam, jetsam, and bodies. No signs of life among them. An hour adrift and he bumped into one last body. Flipping him over, it was Lee. The man he met in Mangi, thwarted a group of marauders with, and set sail with on the Cutlass. In short, his only true friend in this world. Head throbbing, body aching, and spirit broken, John succumbed to unconsciousness.   

He woke to the sound of crashing waves, the sun just rising. Sprawled on a beach, covered in sand and seaweed he coughed a bit and sat up, head pounding. His hour as “captain” a disaster, at least he went down with the ship. A small chuckle escaped his lips at the thought. He assessed his injuries, pounding head and sore shoulder, but all things considered, lucky to be alive. He sat for a while, reliving those moments. He came to the conclusion, he was not cut out to be a captain, better to advise and accept the orders in the moment, only questioning after all was settled. He stood shakily, and headed inland towards the foliage in search of, well, anything at this point. Just like in Mangi he was lost and broke, both in coin and spirit. His only solace, things worked out for him for a bit back then.  

Around midday, he found a worn path wide enough for carts running through the brush and trees. With no coin to flip, he just headed to his left, both ways lead somewhere, may as well explore the possibilities. Evening fast approaching, he could tell he was close to the water again. A few minutes more of walking he saw the outskirts of a settlement. Lamps were being lit and he could hear people talking. Deciding caution would be best, he settled in the brush to wait for full dark to enter unnoticed.  

As the moon rose in the sky, he made his way into the town. Slinking in the shadows, he came to a small building, hearing voices speaking, he ducked below the window and listened. “Two of the navy’s vessels off the coast, what are they looking for?” 

A second voice responded, “They sunk some pirates. They’re probably searching for any survivors that came ashore.” 

“Pirates?! Hopefully none of them come here. Can’t imagine what they’d do.” 

“They said it was the Drunken Cutlass and they found their captain dead. They can’t account for at least one of the crew. Their quartermaster who doubles as their physician no less, apparently has a ruthless reputation as well. Some dishonored former noble with a bounty from both England and France as well as some family named Cecil that will pay for proof of death or capture.” 

“Why not search the monastery on the other side of the island? I heard rumors they give such ruffians sanctuary.” 

“I heard the same, but they won’t likely risk offending the church. And if they are at the monastery they usually don’t leave so it’s just a good as prison I guess.” 

John sat in the darkness. “Well, there goes any chance of safely finding a place here,” he thought. He silently slipped away, back to the path and headed away from the settlement. Thinking maybe he’ll find this monastery and at least get a meal if not a safe place to lay low. 

Exhausted and hungry, he watched as the morning sun made a backdrop for what looked like a sea side fort. He saw two men in brown robes pushing the large wooden doors of the gate open. A wooden relief of a barrel with a cross emblazoned on it above the gate. A horse drawn cart made its way out and down the path. John stood aside as it passed. Another robed man driving the cart laden with barrels, looked down at John and smiled. “You look as if you could use a meal and a wash, not necessarily in that order. Speak to the brothers at the gate, they’ll get you sorted.” The man waved to the others and pointed to John. The brothers nodded and waved John in.  

He approached warily, knowing his luck wasn’t the best as of late. They smiled as he approached. One of them spoke, “Welcome to the Bourbon Monastery. I am Brother Clancy and this is Brother Darby. Our abbot Benedict is the man in the cart. He’ll be back this evening. Let’s get you sorted. What is your name?” 

“You may call me Thomas,” John responded, careful in his wording, whether this was a man or fae did not matter, he’d be cautious for now. He neither gave his name nor outright lied, an old habit he used at times when meeting people he had no previous encounters with. Darby stayed at the gate as Clancy showed John into the monastery’s proper. There were a few buildings within the walls. Clancy led him to the largest of them. “This is the building holds the main chapel, rectory, dining hall and dormitories. I’ll take you to a cell…” 

John started at that and stopped dead. Clancy chuckled lightly, “Easy my friend, it’s what we call our rooms here. And do not worry, many here have pasts, we do not judge.”  

John eased a bit, nodded and motioned for Clancy to continue. Clancy started walking again and led him upstairs to a small room sparsely furnished. A cot, a desk and chair, a small chest, and a table with a wash bowl. “I’ll have them bring some water to wash up and some to drink. Sorry we only have robes for you to change into but, they are fresh. After that we’ll get you fed.”  

Water was brought and John washed and put on some robes. They felt odd, but strangely comforting. Exhausted and hungry, he chose to sleep a bit first and laid down on the cot. As he drifted to sleep, he wondered what was coming next. Evening came and he was awoken to a knock at the door. He rose, stretched a bit, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Yes?”  

Clancy called out from the other side of the door. “Come down for a meal, Thomas. You must be hungry.”  

John opened the door and followed Clancy down to the dining hall. Several long tables were full of sixty or so brothers all eating and chatting. At the head of the hall was a raised dais with another table. Five brothers sat there eating as well. Including the man who was driving the cart, the apparent abbot. Benedict met John’s eyes, smiled, and nodded in acknowledgement. John gave a slight nod back and followed Clancy to a table to the far side. “Sit, eat, be at ease.” 

John ate in silence, listening to the conversations of the brothers around him. Several topics were being discussed, scripture, whiskey distilling, and a pirate ship being sunk off the southern coast. John tried to keep his face from showing anything but passing interest. As he glanced around, he noticed some of these brothers had scars and other signs of rough living, but all seemed calm and at ease here. After he ate his fill, he was about to excuse himself when Abbot Benedict approached, “Brother Clancy tells me you are called Thomas,” John noted a slight smirk on the Abbot’s face. “Come let us talk in private.” John, on his guard, but doing his best to appear at ease rose and followed Benedict.  

Benedict led him to the rectory and through to his private study. The walls lined with shelves of books and a desk with a chair on either side. Benedict strode around the desk and sat. He then motioned for John to sit as well, and John did as he was bidden. “I am sure you have already been told, but I am Abbot Benedict and this is the Bourbon Monastery. What adventures have brought you to our halls?” John sat, quirked his head, thinking how best to answer. 

“I can see you are struggling on how to answer that. Let me tell you about the monastery and then you can answer as you see fit. The monastery was founded in 1510 by Henri de Bourbon. He was the third son of a noble house in France. His family had always expected him to join the priesthood but he had a free spirit and a desire for adventure that led him to piracy for a short stint. Narrowly avoiding capture, he ran head long to the church, eventually becoming a priest. When the opportunity arose for mission work here in the Lucayas he jumped at the chance. He still held a soft spot for his days of piracy and when he founded this monastery he had in mind a place for free spirits to have a safe place to rest or even reform if that was their wish. Free from judgement and persecution. Under the guise of reform, he convinced the church to advocate for leaving those free spirits be, so long as they stayed within the monastery. We are self-sustaining, by virtue of our distillery, we make a whiskey with a smoother finish than the Scots and Irish. The church gets their cut of course. So, you see, you have nothing to fear here.” 

John sat back and thought for a bit. Seems fate was determined to make him a monk, first in Mangi and now here, maybe. He always felt his destiny was the sea, but circumstances kept throwing storms in his path. It might be good to lay low for a while. Was this too good to be true? Possibly. But, then again, he’d not be able to be at sea, so not that good. Nodding he asked, “So as to not knowingly speak false, what do you already know about me? Seems you have some idea, or you likely would not be as candid.” 

“An English naval captain at the village had said they had sunk some pirates off the coast and was looking for survivors. One in particular was known as John Sinclair, the Felon Physician. The description seemed to fit a man I saw walking towards this very monastery this morning. I of course saw no such man” Benedict leveled John with a look that said, “You have friends here.” 

John smiled slightly, “That being the case, I guess you may call me John. What would be required of me to stay here and enjoy the benefit of freedom, such as it is?” 

“Always with the you may call me, not my name is or I am?” 

“A habit of necessity, and a discussion for when more trust has built between us. I mean no offense, but my life has been…” he shrugged, “a tortuous mess at best. So, I ask again, what would be required of me?”  

“Well, first you will earn your keep. Working with the other brothers in the day-to-day upkeep and at the distillery. Also, if the captain spoke true, you were actually a ship’s doctor, those skills could be of use as well. As to your faith so to speak. We have two oaths that can be sworn, and only the Abbot and the brother himself will ever know which. The first is the traditional oaths set by the church. The second is to at least make it look like you swore those oaths. With this second option, there is the addition to not knowingly bring harm to the monastery or its true purpose of sanctuary by flaunting the protection and being seen participating in unbecoming activities. In short, if you cannot be good, at least be good at it.” 

Hearing words his own father had once told him, if you cannot be good, at least be good at it, John’s decision was made. He took the second option and swore the oaths. Over the course of nearly thirty years, John and Benedict became close friends. Over that time, John told the abbot most of his story, including the curse of longevity. Benedict once spoke of John possibly becoming abbot in the future. John balked at the idea, telling of his taking command of the Cutlass. He was not cut out to be a leader. Benedict chuckled at that and told him he in fact had many qualities of a good leader, including not thinking he was best for the job. He also spent time researching curses as well as other occult practices, made possible through Benedict obtaining tomes and texts for him.  

September of 1593, John was reading a text about lifting fae curses by bathing in honey. He tried that decades ago, it only made him sticky. He rubbed his eyes, thinking, “None of this shit works…” A knock on his door brought him out of his self-pity. “Yes?”  

Abbot Benedict enter John’s cell. “There is news from Rome. They wish to elevate me to cardinal. I am to leave in the spring. They are also sending a replacement for me rather than raise from within. Gregory Chamberlain.”  

“The Demon Hunter?” 

“The same.” 

John sat perplexed for a moment, “That won’t go well for me in time. He’ll likely have me tried for heresy and devil worship within a year.” 

“That is more likely than not my friend. We will figure something out. But that is not a today problem. Today’s problem is how do we celebrate my elevation?” 

“If only we had some libations readily at hand,” John replied with no absence of snark. They laughed and both went down to the dining hall for some heavy drinking. 

A month later, at sunset, the brothers closing the coastal gate noticed a fire darkened ship flying a black flag with a diagonal red stripe, a white skeletal hand, and a white seabird anchored off the coast and several longboats were making their way ashore. Many of the brothers were in a panic. The abbot tried to calm them. John approached Benedict, “Let me go out and speak with them. If they are pirates or the like, I know how they think. Maybe we can limit the damage done.”  

“Very well.” 

John made haste out through the coastal gate. Watching the sailors beach the longboats, he assessed the group. Was that a bloody Northman? No time to dwell on that. He quickly spotted who they were deferring to. A long red beard and a presence that spoke of authority, and… mischief? This man must be the raiding leader if not the actual captain. Just looking at him, John thought he could like this man. But time will tell. He addressed the man with the red beard, “Welcome to the Bourbon Monastery. You may call me Brother John. I am tasked with ascertaining your business with us and to parlay if necessary.” 

The red bearded man smiled ruefully, “We are but humble seafaring merchants, seeking food, drink, possibly some sport, and a parting gift of whatever you have to offer.” The rest of the men laughed. 

John grinned; he was definitely going to like this man. The possibilities were plenty. “It is my hope to limit the strain on our stores as well as limit any detriments to the health of all involved. I propose a duel to first blood between you and I. If I win, we will provide a barrel of whiskey and you will be on your way. If you win, I will convince the brothers to not resist and hand over all that you can carry. If you would also be so kind as to lend me a sword?” 

The red bearded man stood their dumfounded and thought to himself, “The stones on this man. What the hell? He’s just a man of the cloth.” Aloud he said, “Why not? Someone toss him a sword.”  

One of the “seafaring merchants” tossed John a sword and he picked it up judging its balance. Raised it to guard and took a balanced stance. “Whenever you are ready.”  

The red bearded man drew his sword and approached slowly. They circled around, testing each other’s defenses with tentative thrusts and slashes. They locked eyes, both smiled and went into a flurry. Slash, thrust, parry, riposte. Coat and robes fluttering with the frenzy. John was definitely rusty but muscle memory took hold. The other man was obviously a master swordsman. John was not sure he could actually beat this man. Maybe if he practiced more with swordplay, it would have been different, but no use worrying now. He kept his smile though, this was exhilarating. The other was still smiling as well. For a split-second John saw an opening and made a thrust. Unfortunately, he left an opening as well. Both swords met left shoulders, just deep enough to draw blood. 

Swords still piercing shoulders, eyes locked, the red bearded man let out a breath, “A draw. What do you propose now?”  

“Let’s start by lowering our swords.” Both men did as such. John saw an opportunity to mitigate time spent around Gregory as well as get back to the sea, “The Bourbon Monastery is known for its whiskey. But it also provides sanctuary to free spirits. You will have safe haven whenever you want to lay low for a spell as well as a few barrels of our whiskey every time you come to port free of charge. I ask to join you and your crew. I am a physician and I was once a seafaring merchant as well and its high time I got back to the freedom of the sea. So, you get a safe harbor, libations, and an able sailor and physician. The Monastery gets to go on with no harm done and a missionary at sea. Do we have an accord?” 

“You’ve a set of stones on you; I’ll give ya that. We have an accord. I am Captain Redbeard welcome aboard the Damned Promise,” and he offered his hand. John clasped it firmly and a bond began. 

And so it was, that John Sinclair went from piracy to brotherhood to both, as over the years he and Captain Redbeard built a bond of brotherhood along with the rest of the crew. And on to the freedom of the sea, salty spray on his face, the wind at his back, and adventures a plenty.