Devils island, p.1
Devil's Island, page 1
Devil's Island
C R Dempsey
CRMPD Media Limited
Copyright © 2024 by C R Dempsey
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.K copyright law.
Contents
Dedication
1. The cauldron of hell
2. The downward spiral
3. Between two rocks
4. The last days of a condemned man
5. The devil’s soup
6. A bargain with what you do not possess
7. A glittering prize
8. A leap in the dark
9. The wanderings of weary minds
10. The seeds of redemption
11. A lesson in Irish warfare
12. The lure of home
13. A promising situation
14. The pangs of being compromised
15. Consigned to mud
16. Freedom lies with the sea shells
17. The reluctant adventurer
18. The expedition begins
19. Follies and failures
20. Rain, wind and traitors
21. A father’s revenge
22. A father’s promise
23. A foreigner’s pledge
24. The forest
25. The court of the Maguire
26. Pride and its slippery slide
27. The perils of the dark
28. The dead of night
29. Reliving the past
30. The pawn
31. The devil of the cold does his damnedest
32. Any port in a storm
33. A serving of rabbit and fate
34. Nomads
35. Leave the rescue missions to the young and foolish
36. Licking his wounds
37. Being set straight
38. Bad tidings
39. The crash of waves
40. Promises worth a pretty penny
41. Down with the dogs
42. Rough seas, new beginnings
43. Once upon a drink in an Edinburgh tavern
44. A courtly dance
45. Amongst friends
46. The dagger strikes
47. Demons of the sea
48. Snaring the prey
49. Deja vu
50. Reacquaintance with chains
51. A tangled web
52. The substance of several treasons
53. One last confession
54. The four corners of Ireland
55. An audience with the king
56. Historical note
Map of Breifne and surrounding lands
About Author
Also By
Acknowledgments
For Mena and Poppy
Chapter 1
The cauldron of hell
The wood of the ship’s hull was coated in a layer of slime as if dredged from the depths of a putrid and forsaken cavern, a stopover on the descent to hell. The dampness clung to the walls like a thick mucus, remnants of wicked creatures slithering back into the underworld, figments of an overstimulated imagination. Francisco Butero found himself trapped in this cursed pit, impervious to prayer, clean air, daylight, or even hope.
The voices inside his head echoed the accusations that had led to his plight, reminding him that he had brought this upon himself. He felt his skull bounce off the grimy walls of the tiny cell, the sharp sting of pain radiating through his head. He tried to move, only to find himself bound by cold, unwavering iron manacles on his wrists and ankles. The stench of his own waste permeated the small space, mixing with the putrid odour of the cramped quarters. But he was the lucky one. The one privilege he had been granted was a cell to himself, a privilege he was not allowed to forget by his neighbours.
Struggling to find some semblance of comfort, Francisco lifted his feet off the filthy floor and collapsed onto a rusted bench attached to the wall by a single hinge and chain. But even in this momentary respite, he could only cry out in despair. “What infernal cauldron have I been cast into?” he bellowed at the bars of his cell, hoping for some sort of answer or reprieve. Instead, all he received were taunts from other prisoners, their words laced with bitterness and resentment. “Now you know what it feels like,” they goaded, “there’s no one to make your meals and wash your clothes here, your lordship.” To which Francisco could only curse and swear revenge towards his tormentors and the cruel world that had cast him into this wretched place. But at least he had finally got some attention from those who controlled the keys.
The jailer sauntered in, his heavy footsteps echoing like a death knell. His face twisted in resentment at being disturbed by the noise and activity that demanded his attention, tearing him away from more enjoyable pursuits. Sickly pale skin clung to his gaunt face, a reflection of his neglectful care for himself, the prisoner and guard duties.
His scruff matched the unkempt appearance of the man behind bars, but unlike the tattered rags adorning the prisoner’s body, the jailer boasted a pair of sturdy boots and a filthy breastplate as symbols of his authority. While the imprisoned man had no protection for his head against the violent thrashing of the ship, the guard wore a morion to shield himself. While the prisoner clung to a simple chain for support, the jailer held onto his freedom and authority with a wooden club and sword.
“Release me from this hellhole!” Francisco’s hands gripped the cold metal bars of his cage with trembling fingers as he pleaded, his voice hoarse from weeks of neglect, making him sound pitiful.
A flicker of desperate hope burned in Francisco’s eyes.
“Surely I could better serve my admiral, fleet, and king if I were up on deck using my skills? If God were truly judging my supposed crimes, then I should have been thrown overboard to suffer at the mercy of sea serpents and monstrous creatures. But God, in His boundless wisdom, would surely command those beasts to spit me back out onto the deck so that I may continue to serve Him and our fleet all the way back to Spain. There, I would stand trial for my alleged crimes and let God be the ultimate judge. He would see that any perceived wrongdoing has been more than redeemed by the countless souls I have saved through my service.”
The desperation in his voice was almost palpable as he begged for mercy from both God and his captors.
The jailer threw his head back and let out a deep, bellowing laugh. He was accustomed to grasping hands protruding from the cell bars and the eloquent pleas generated by the fear of meeting one’s maker or one of the implements of discipline the jailer may bring with him. With a sarcastic sigh, he pulled up a small stool and settled down, revelling in the entertainment that would surely come from this afternoon’s interrogation. As the jailer, he held respect and power in only one area of the ship and at only one time in his life. It was over these prisoners, and he would make them pay for all those who had mocked and taunted him all his life for his lowly standing, portly body and distorted face, and take pleasure in their suffering.
He tilted his head and sneered at Francisco, who now sat humbled and cowed in his cell. “Oh, Francisco, how the mighty have fallen. Can I now refer to you by your first name since you share the stench of this jail with me?” The jailer’s smirk widened as he continued to mock his prisoner. “Were you too much of a coward to face our enemy, or perhaps you were in league with them and the devil himself? How do we know it was not your actions that brought us to this cauldron of hell as punishment for your sins?”
The jailer paused, savouring the torment he inflicted on Francisco. He leaned in close, his breath hot on Francisco’s face as he whispered cruel accusations.
“How do we know you’re not a secret heretic, seduced by the heathen queen’s beauty and lured by the hope of gaining her favour? You could have conspired to overthrow the admiral and claim the kingdom for yourself. Who knows what dark fantasies linger beneath that stern exterior of yours?” The jailer scoffed, relishing his own twisted words. “No, no one can trust a man like you. That’s why the admiral has ordered your trial as soon as this storm passes, hoping your sacrifice will appease any further occurrence of the raging tempest.”
Francisco could no longer bear to sweeten his words for this cruel man. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands together in desperate prayer.
“I swear, I am not a vessel for the devil’s work,” he pleaded. “I will only speak of breaking ranks when my words are heard by those who truly matter. I implore you not to reduce my case, which could decide whether I live or die, into mere entertainment and idle chatter for your own amusement.”
The jailer’s face cracked with laughter, and what was left of his crooked brown teeth was on rare display for Francisco’s benefit.
“You may have been a captain of the fleet once, but you are no more. Now you are the lowest of the low, a mere prisoner and I have your life in my hands. The more you respect me, the less I piss in your food.”
“Don’t debase yourself,” Francisco retorted through gritted teeth.
The jailer let out another harsh laugh. “Captains like you always rely on people like me to do their dirty work. But when your own mess is staring back at you, suddenly you’re not so brave.”
Francisco withdrew his begging hands and shifted off his sore knees onto the bench, curling up into himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. It was a feeble attempt to protect what little dignity he had left.
“Can’t even give me a blanket? Don’t let your admiral put a corpse on trial.”
“Any lice are from the last prisoner, not me.” The jailer snickered.
Francisco sighed and lowered himself back to the ground, examining the blanket for any dry spots or holes that could provide some warmth. But as he lifted it to cover himself, he couldn’t help but recoil at the overwhelming stench that wafted from it. He resigned himself to the fact that there would be no comfort in this blanket, only repulsion.
“And I haven’t even been put on trial yet, let alone found guilty,” Francisco muttered bitterly.
The jailer sneered at his dirty and beaten appearance. “Make good use of this time before your trial. I could send for a priest if you wish.”
Francisco’s mind drifted towards his own ship, where he was master and commander. There, he had the protection of the crew, who vigorously protested when the admiral came to take him. If he could get back to his ship, he would have their protection, which would grant him the time to prove his innocence.
“If you’re granting requests, send for Father Pedro from my own ship,” he said with a flicker of hope.
“I’m sure for your past services, no one would deny you access to your own priest. If the weather allows, I will send a boat to your ship,” the jailer replied callously.
“God bless your kindness,” Francisco said sarcastically.
The jailer chuckled. “And so he should. He sees it so rarely.”
Chapter 2
The downward spiral
Like a ship caught in a whirlpool, Francisco was pulled deeper and deeper into a descending spiral of ill health and melancholy. His once luscious locks now clung to his pallid scalp like seaweed on a drowning man. The disorderly state of his usually well-groomed beard mirrored the disarray of his thoughts and emotions. With each passing day, the shadows under his eyes seemed to darken, revealing the true depth of his inner turmoil. In a frenzy, he clawed at his own head, desperate to break free from the suffocating grip of his inner demons.
He repeatedly mulled over the events that precipitated his downfall, clinging to the faint hope that one more meticulous examination might yet unearth an elusive answer. His last glimpse of his beloved family on the dock was bittersweet as he eagerly boarded the ship, filled with anticipation for the voyage ahead. It was a sight unlike any other, with the grandest armada ever assembled setting sail from the port. Once out to sea, the devil seemed to force his hands up through the roof of hell, through the ocean bed and whip up the seas into the worst tempest ever seen by man. The ships of the most powerful man on earth, the king of Spain, were tossed around like a child would toss his toys around in the bath. When they were out of the storm, they got to the English Channel, where the more nimble English ships harassed them. The English sent their demonic fireships brim-full of burning tar to break up the Spanish fleet, and the heretics then attacked and defeated the forces of the Spanish crown. Their only escape route was into the North Sea. Little did they know that they sailed straight into more of the devil’s storms. The devil tossed them around so much that all they could do was huddle below deck and pray. So battered was Francisco’s ship by the time the devil released it from his grip he could not join the formation the next time the English attacked, and so began his journey to the cell. Francisco stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to order his muddled thoughts. No, nothing. Francisco slammed his fist against the wall for another retelling that did not reveal a solution.
The unyielding storm continued to rage, pummelling the ship with its relentless fury. Francisco’s thoughts tumbled in his head, mirroring the relentless ebb and flow of the waves. The despair induced by the ceaseless motion of the sea ruthlessly stripped away what little courage and hope remained within him. His stomach churned, and his soul felt weighed down by the never-ending turmoil.
Amidst his unbearable suffering, he held onto two flickering candles – his family and his faith. He could envision the radiant smile of his wife, her curls framing her face like a halo. His heart ached for his young children, chasing each other around the sunlit garden.
But the images in his mind were slowly fading, replaced by the grim reality of his jail cell. The faces of his wife and children became hazy. Their smiles turned into frowns as their garden was engulfed by darkness. He desperately clasped his hands, praying for an escape from this never-ending nightmare, longing to be back in that peaceful dreamland where his children’s laughter awoke him. But as a cold drop of water hit his face, he came to the harsh realisation that it was all just a cruel mirage.
The cramped hold was filled with the scum and filth of the fleet – petty thieves, ill-tempered sailors, rapists, cowards, and other assorted low-lives. The stench of sweat and fear hung heavy in the air, mingling with the occasional outburst or whispered plotting. The dim light filtering through the small portholes cast eerie shadows on the haggard faces of the prisoners, adding to the tense atmosphere in the hold.
The other prisoners either jeered at him, revelling in the downfall of an authority figure, or attempted to win his favour, hoping he would speak on their behalf in their case if he was found innocent in his. Francisco tried to pacify them, but he mostly kept to himself, tuning out their constant murmurs and schemes. But the main source of his torment was the jailer.
The jailer brought him a bowl of what he told him was salty soup, but it was more like a murky brew with occasional solid objects floating within. Francisco could only hope they were vegetables, but he could not be sure as the sadistic grin on the jailer’s face never wavered. “Rat or vegetable?” he would ask, holding the soup just out of reach through the bars. Francisco always answered with vegetable, hoping against hope that it was true. But the jailer would always laugh and hand over the soup while taunting him again for being wrong. If Francisco dared show any disrespect, the jailer would tip the soup onto the filthy floor of his cell and blame it on the rocking of the ship. Therefore, many a night ended in hunger until another bowl of questionable soup arrived the next day.
Francisco found himself alone once again, the creaking of the ship his constant companion. The sound reverberated through the dank jail cell as the heavy door slammed shut, sealing out all light except a mere sliver peeking through a crack. This small sliver of brightness offered little comfort to Francisco, for he knew what would come with the darkness – the rats. They would scurry and scamper around the perimeter of his cell, their sharp claws scraping against the rough floorboards. He would huddle in the corner, lifting his legs to avoid their gnawing teeth.
The rats seemed to be conspiring with each other, squeaking and chattering in their own twisted language. Francisco could not help but imagine them plotting his demise, ready to pounce and devour him like helpless prey. With so many of them infesting the ship, it wouldn’t take long for them to swarm and overwhelm him. His frail body would offer little resistance against their insatiable hunger. Each minute felt like an eternity as he waited for dawn, praying for salvation from his disease-ridden, vicious cellmates.
But the light would return eventually, and Francisco would call out for his one beacon of hope.
“Is the priest coming?”
The jailer paid no attention to him as if to display his disdain for Francisco. He vigorously mopped the constantly dirty prison floor in a rare show of diligence, perhaps to further emphasize his contempt for Francisco.
“Is the priest coming?”
The jailer spat where he had just cleaned.
“A priest is certainly coming, but I’m not sure he is the one you want to see.”
Francisco could see the jailer did not want to talk to him, but his opportunities to gain the jailer's ear were rare, so he persisted.
“I can feel the boat’s rocking has eased these past few days. Surely it should be calm enough for the captain to send someone to fetch him?”
The jailer smirked.
“When the ship settles, your trial begins. I would pray for storms if I were you.”
“So they leave a faithful servant of the king once more to starve and rot.”
