or . . . How The Damned Promise Set Sail 

June 1592. Captain Francis Barbarossa and crew are navigating through the Irish Sea, scalping merchant ships as turmoil brews between the Irish and English. War is potentially on the horizon, and pirates are taking advantage as these kingdoms are distracted with their squabbles. The Cartographer, back to sailing under the black flag, is equipped with the necessary armaments to take down most opposition. However, the ship has a long history, even more scars to show its usage, and space is becoming limited as more choose to join rather than face no quarter.  

As luck would have it, a three-masted galleon is on the horizon heading south towards the Cartographer; a ripe opportunity to gain a new ship. Only a few years back into the pirate life, and with fresh faced crew members, there wasn’t anyone aboard who didn’t seek a challenge in this moment. Masts were brought to full sail with the deck crew ready for a snap maneuver to “cross the T”. Gunnery crews loaded their cannons to prepare for a full broadside to the bow then against the starboard side of the incoming galleon. These preparations were known all too well by the men, as it was standard practice at this point due to its continued success.  

The Cartographer must have been 1,700 yards away when the boatswain yelled out in a confused voice, 

“Their portholes ain’t open, and they barely got anyone top deck!” 

“Who sails?”, asked the captain. 

“Not a flag in sight, sir.” 

Something was not right here. Captain Barbarossa felt this and signaled to belay his previous orders for what he thought was to be a battle, and in their place ordered the vanguard to prepare for immediate boarding. The mystery galleon raised its sails and even anchored as Barbarossa closed in, seeming to already accept its fate. Grapple hooks were thrown over, and gangplanks laid across the two ships as the vanguard cautiously went over. They faced no opposition. Only a skeleton crew of unarmed Scotsman, and a crazed man speaking with a French accent.  

Three Years Prior 

The Pett Dynasty was a well-established family of shipwrights, designing and building vessels for the royal English navy, calling the Deptford docks as their primary base of operations. They may as well have been royalty amongst the seaman and dock workers, but not all that glitters is gold. The Pett family was no exception.  

John Pett was a black sheep, and a tenacious one at that. He was always described as “quirky” by those close to him, but this quirkiness quickly devolved to concerning habits over the years. John frequently presented ludicrous, and seemingly impossible ideas for ship designs that were always rejected. One design called for the vessel to be entirely made of metal, and its sails made of stitched bat wings. His ideas, and their inevitable rejections continued even when his eldest brother Joseph took the title of Master Shipwright in 1589 from their father. It was at this point his ideas became even more absurd, as his drawings and plans began to involve mystical elements. It’s unknown how or why he went down this path.  

Rumors began to spread around the “royal dock family” of John’s supposed insanity. In an attempt to squash these stories from spreading further, and to save the Pett family name, John was admitted into Bethlem Asylum under the name John Parker in January 1590. An obituary was published to further hide him and remove the damaging beliefs within the public. He was labelled to have been possessed by demons and suffered regular exorcisms; deemed torturous by his sister, Sarah, who often visited John. In fact, much of what is known is through her diary, and later letter correspondence between the two. 

John had escaped some months later. Beaten and broken with an unstable mind, and no documentation other than a “John Parker” written in a logbook for his admittance at Bethlem, a dead man was now walking the streets. It didn’t take long after his new freedom that he had robbed the safes at his family’s shipyards. With his new wealth and desire to bring his ideas to life, John fled north to Scotland under the name Charles Sixième.  

Taking on a French accent, he somehow managed to convince local shipwrights he was sent from France under commission by Lord Robert Boyd to build another ship for the Royal Scots Navy. The previous being the wedding gift warship Salamander of Leith from Francis I to James V of Scotland. Fortunately for Charles, Lord Boyd had passed earlier that year. It was the Lord’s death, along with the wealth of gold Charles brought, that the workers gave little effort in seeking if his story was factual. With their full pay covered up front, the Scots began their work on Charles’ first creation. It was not long after the start of construction that he became a recluse in the dock office, only speaking through a courier he had hired. Work continued uninterrupted over the following two years. Charles was known throughout this time to wander the docks seemingly lost speaking to himself in riddles, and often had slept within the skeleton of his ship on the drydocks. It was those nights that he would carve symbols into the wood with outwardly random phrases. 

Alas, the day had come, and his magnum opus was nearly complete. The exceptionally large vessel was lean and stretched longer than any other ship of its kind; its narrow body was almost like a cutlass piercing the sea. It was outfitted well enough to assault the most formidable naval foe, able to crew well below its capacity with 400 able-bodied sailors.  Its two gun decks had strips of steel running from bow to stern to aid in its defense of cannon balls of any caliber. The additional weight was compensated for by its 50 plus cannons being cast in bronze, rather than the standard iron. Its three masts were made of bog wood retrieved from northern Scotland, aiding in the ship’s later darker appearance, as well as its stealth as creaking sounds were minimal.  

Of all its structural mysteries, the feature most spoken of was the seemingly unfinished figurehead. The faceless woman reached out from the bow, as all who bore witness would see a different visage.  

The ship began to be stocked for her maiden voyage, and Charles only had the task of naming the vessel when a sudden explosion in the stock building had disrupted the flow of work, causing chaos in the docks. The burst of flames shot out and struck the starboard side of the ship, blackening its wood as though being swiped by the devil. A second explosion, this time from the left side had continued its battering of the ship, as it remained chained in position being tortured by the unprompted and unknown attack. 

Multiple witnesses will admit to seeing Charles unfazed by all that was going on, and immediately calling out to those around him, 

“The Pope’s radicals have come to take away our prized creation! Heave, and let lose my child!” 

In blind obedience the Scots released the ship into the water, with a skeleton crew and Charles himself at the helm. The unnamed ship had narrowly escaped and was spared from destruction as another explosion had occurred. Taking advantage of the situation, Charles again exclaimed to his crew that they must head south to “redeem our fallen Protestant dockmen”. These dock workers now turned sailors had come to respect their “French” employer. They viewed him as eccentric, sure, but nothing more. After all, it was Charles who called them to action and saved their lives from the…Catholics? In fact, there were never issues in the past in this area between religious folk, certainly not to the extent of detonating explosives. Confused, they still obeyed and sailed south.  

So, they sailed down the Irish Sea. It wasn’t long until they came upon another ship heading north straight for them. Just over 1,500 yards out, roughly, one of the Scotsman noticed through the spyglass that the incoming ship was flying a black flag, had opened its portholes, and like fingers pointing, its cannons’ mouths peered through the windows. He had relayed this to his new captain, who did not respond initially. Charles stared blankly ahead until murmuring, 

“The night is far spent; the day is at hand.” 

Neither ship deterred from their path as the distance between them became smaller.  Most of these young men may have had a small brawl in the local pub, but never put into a position to repel pirates out at sea. It didn’t dawn on them until now that they had no weapons due to their rushed exit from the “attack” that, already, they began to believe was the doing of Charles. Nonetheless, during their lapse in certainty of what to do, they had looked for their captain, but Charles had made his way into the captain’s quarters and locked the door behind him. Without a leader, his crew collectively and without a word to each other agreed Charles was best to be left where he was. With fear shivering their bones, the crew made the decision on their own to raise sail, drop anchor, and pray the approaching ship shows mercy. 

The ships met at last. Grapple hooks were thrown over, and gangplanks laid across the two ships as a vanguard cautiously went over. The unarmed Scots remained still, raising their hands to show they were no threat to their borders. It was Charles who broke the silence as he burst forth from his room, disheveled, and practically foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He had approached the strangers as he began yelling, claiming them to be “invaders”, demanding they cease desecrating his “temple” all while wielding salted pork like a short sword.  

During Charles’ nonsensical tirade, a man had stepped aboard from behind the bewildered vanguard whose swords and pistols are still aimed at the terrified crewmen. While those who came over first were distinctively plunderers, this man donned a well-kept blue coat adorned with metals, and a tricorn hat with just a feather. The only features that led you to know he too was a marauder was his small collection of tribal jewelry around his neck, the darkness of his eyes, and unruly red beard hanging from his chin. The unmistakable captain gave a single look through the crowd until landing on Charles, who blue in the face commanded “en guarde!”.  

With one gesture from Captain Barbarossa, his men subdued Charles who began wailing obscenities into the air, still keeping to his French accent until finally being muffled. The rest of the crew were ordered to the amidship and remained untied. Francis made his way around the still unnamed ship, like a buyer on the market inspecting a possible purchase. He then approached the gathered Scotsmen, who were seemingly at ease from the care they’d been under, and offered them two options, 

“There are longboats for those who wish to row back to land. Your journey would be a bit rough, as shore is 75 miles in either direction, give or take”, as Francis motioned towards both port and starboard.  

He continued, 

“Alternatively, your ship here that you’ve graciously gifted me can home additional sailors. Pledge fealty to me and my own and gain more riches than wherever you came from or planned on going.” 

The dock workers turned sailors turned prisoners thought for a moment. They did not know the individual speaking to them from above, from tales or otherwise. They did understand, however, that the promise of more wealth to line their wool pockets was a far better option than navigating a rowboat in the Irish Sea. Who knows who else they’d encounter? The English would more than likely treat them worse than this bearded pirate captain is right now. Almost all at once they stood and joined the ranks of Barbarossa and company. Immediately following, they aided in moving supplies and weapons from one ship to the other, passing Charles every way who had remained silent. Pensively, he was locking eyes with every individual who would look his way, seemingly to document their faces.  

Once the Cartographer was fully unloaded it was detached and pushed off. Charles had a look of defeat in his eyes as his head slumped down. The first time anyone can admit seeing him in such an emotional state. His head came back up as he heard the Master Gunner yell out “let loose”. It was not cannons that fired, but arrows with their tips on fire. The newly inducted pirates all stood along the banister, as they watched a ship be set ablaze. Though they did not know him, they had witnessed a crucial moment for their new captain. As though destroying his last ties to his previous life, Francis burned his former ship, fully embracing infamous Captain Redbeard and whatever his new future had in store. All the crew knew this now.  

Over the course of the following few months everyone settled in together, and comradery prevailed. All except Charles. He had remained a prisoner aboard the vessel of his own design. Many nights he screamed into the darkness of the hull calling for mutiny, or for a moment for Baron Samedi, the voodoo god of death. The latter did not last more than two nights as the captain went himself to quiet the madman. Rumors went around the ship that Francis had cut Charles’ tongue, as he did not make a word for the rest of his stay aboard the ship, which did not last much longer.  

Charles was marooned on a small island north of France, believed to be Saint Anne, with a small waterskin and a pistol with one shot. Some say the flint was taken out of the pistol by the captain. But this was not the end of Charles Sixième. His letters to Sarah continued, dated a few weeks after he was left on the island. He had somehow managed to escape this prison as well and landed himself in mainland France; possibly rescued by a passing fishing boat.  

Not much is known about Charles’ time in France. His letters, brief in content, speak of living as a pauper, with no one around him understanding the “gospel” he spoke in the street corners; most likely due to his lack of knowledge in the French language. It was discovered that he was arrested for “acts of religious heresy” and public disturbance, due to his public ramblings of witchcraft. His letters did not continue.  

As for the single ship that came to fruition from his broken mind, it continues to sail under command of Captain Redbeard and crew. A name never officially given. It was from the story of Redbeard as well as his travels and exploits, that the rest of the world bestowed its namesake, the Damned Promise. A hull still blackened from the explosions after its birth, and now tainted with the curse of Redbeard. A mad man’s creation, with another at the helm.