A Pirates Life for Me – 1971
Bainbridge, Washington. December 1, 1971
Investigators from the FBI as well as the TSA continue to turn up dead-ends in the search for the daredevil skyjacker known as Dan Cooper, who vanished from the back of a captured 727 somewhere over northern Oregon last week with over two-hundred thousand dollars. Cooper was described as medium height and medium build, with no discernable accent and slightly balding, and should be considered armed and dangerous.
The gentleman turned off the radio with a click, and smiled. Getting up, he stretched and looked around his home in satisfaction. He was wealthy. He had been for most of his life and enjoyed a lifestyle which he preferred to think of as comfortable. He walked to the bar in his spacious living room and poured himself a drink, staring for a moment at the weathered charts and maps which marked the height of British seamanship. He marveled at the boundaries, long changed, kingdoms come and gone, and his eyes drifted towards objects in the next room.
This particular room was at the center of his estate, and being seventy-five feet by two hundred feet, Carl thought of it as his Great Hall. As he walked down thoughtfully swirling his drink, he pondered upon the work of numerous lives. It seemed every square foot of space was filled with exceptional items and wonders: A Faberge snuffbox on the credenza sat next to African totems, while sculptures by the great masters, both purchased and otherwise acquired, dotted the room. Perhaps he would have a party, allow all of Seattle's elite to admire the collection of the reclusive "Carl Bolls" the luxury ship designer and art critic. Bolls only designed one ship a year, and he charged a high price for his exclusive designs. He sipped his bourbon, a sixty-year malt but he was celebrating, and settled into his favorite chair. It was a high-backed easy chair, a bit overstuffed, but firm thanks to a slab of marble inscribed with a cross set into the bottom. Yes, a party.
Suddenly the front door burst in with men shouting "FBI, FBI! NOBODY MOVE!!" Carl winced as he heard a crash. That would be the twelfth-century jade fresco in the entryway, but his favorite was in his bedroom, safe for the moment. He put his drink down on a sandalwood table and stood up, raising his hands. "In here, gentlemen, I'm unarmed." In seconds he was facing down a dozen men pointing nine-millimeter handguns in his direction. It wasn't the worst situation he'd ever faced. An older gentleman, a detective in a derby hat and a long coat, came in sporting a white mustache and walking with the weight of a Smith & Wesson on his right hip. He looked his prisoner up and down. "Take him."
Carl smiled and spoke quietly, “Gentlemen, there’s been some mistake. If you will give me a moment to make a phone call,” and he walked slowly over towards an ornate teakwood Indian cabinet. The detective growled, “We have that exit covered, Bolls.”
The expression of despair was barely discernible on his face, “I see, well then, how about a drink before we go?” He walked over to a small service table and poured a drink while eleven guns were pointed at him. As he held it up in a toast, he pulled a knob that should have dropped him fifty feet downward in less than 10 seconds, but nothing moved. His frown was more pronounced as the detective continued “Bolls, I’m warning you, I have orders to bring you in, and alive was a preference only.”
Carl visibly sighed, knowing he had only one recourse left. The way things were getting, a life sentence would be too much, he wouldn’t go again. “Simply let me get my coat, officer, and well go clear this matter up immediately.” He strode over to a closet and pulled out a scarlet trench coat with gold buttons. He put first one arm in and pushed his right arm through as he turned towards the detectives, pulling back the hammer on the gun concealed in the sleeve. He stumbled back with the impact, dropping his gun as a dart struck him in the neck. He looked at the detective pointing a strange pistol at him and realized that it had been over a hundred years since somebody had beaten him on the draw. Then all he saw was blackness.
***
London, 1671
They had caught him in the Tower of London with Saint Edward's Crown under his clerical robe and the Royal Jewel Keeper Edward Talbott unconscious nearby. He had been a good speaker, but Thomas Blood's oratory gift would only get him so far. When brought before the magistrate, he had appealed directly to the King, and to the surprise of everyone but himself, it had been granted. Now, he stood before King Charles II in a private chamber with his head bowed, considering his words carefully. "I failed, Highness"
"Yes, Colonel Blood. You have offended our royal presence with your failure, and as such your life is forfeit."
"Yes, your Highness." It was all true. He had been contracted to steal the jewels so the King could sell them to replenish the royal treasury, in the utmost secrecy of course. In all only eight men in the kingdom had known of the plot, and now only three remained alive. Soon, there would be two.
"Colonel Blood,” King Charles II spoke in an imperial tone that was neither forced nor unkind, it was how he spoke to everyone, “what if I should give you your life?"
Thomas looked up. "I would endeavor to deserve it, Sire."
The kings eyes softened for the first time “Thomas had ever remembered Good. Our Kingdom has need of not angels, but of demons that may go where angels dare not tread." So began his new life as Lord Thomas Blood, a scoundrel of London Society and also as one of King Charles' top men. A good life, it had run out, but long before Thomas had.”
***
Time had no meaning for Carl, and thousands of memories came crashing together in his head. He saw himself on the deck of a ship, coming about for another broadside. He saw himself on the lone frontier, as he accidentally shot his friend and protégé he had loved like a son. He saw countless places and faces all blurred together. He focused on the image of himself, and the man known as Carl Bolls slowly returned to consciousness. He tried to rub his throbbing neck, but was handcuffed in a chair, in a dim room with a single light bulb. As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw the old lawman from his home, standing to one side. "Where am I? Who are you? I have rights!" His words hung in the air, as he focused on the detectives face. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the man looked familiar.
"You’re in Washington DC, deep underground." The voice came from behind him, but Carl wouldn't give it the satisfaction of craning his wounded neck. "Take those off him, Henry, he won’t try that again.” There was silence for a moment, and then pair of footsteps started walking around the table. The detective unlocked the handcuffs, and Bolls rubbed his neck, taking in his surroundings as the nameless man read from a file in his hands, "Carl Bolls, alias Dan Cooper..." Carl smiled slightly, wondering how they'd found him. His crime had been nearly perfect, but the litany continued, "...alias James Williams, alias Walter MacRaerdy." That name came as a kick in the stomach. Twenty years earlier as Walter MacRaerdy he had hijacked and disappeared with a freighter full of precious stones and artwork from Thailand. This man was good.
He looked at the source of the voice as it walked around the table. He was a tall man, of olive complexion, wearing a coat similar to the "lawman" though of finer fabric and cut. Wealthy without being showy, everyone has their preference, he mused, but the man’s face was difficult to make out, as he stood just beyond the shadows. He studied the lawman's face again. There was something familiar about this man, an old kind of danger he hadn't seen in nearly a century. A name in the litany snapped him out of his musings.
"Alias Gerhard Schmidt, Alias Daniel Bowls, Alias William McCoy," Now Tom was beginning to understand. They had finally found him. Whoever these men were, they'd been following him for decades; William McCoy, The Real McCoy had been killed by the US Coast Patrol nearly fifty years ago.
"Alias Lord Jacob Blood IV, alias Lieutenant Charles Bolles, alias Black Bart stagecoach robber, alias Lord Jacob Blood III, , alias Springheel Jack,..." The man called Carl Bolls felt all conscious thought leave his body. He began to sweat, his stomach sank, and he felt a fear he hadn’t known since he faced a final broadside of English Cannon off the coast of Africa. They knew. His days of hiding were over. They knew they had the immortal thief in front of them- God's joke, a test of mankind, a man who didn’t deserve to live, but who couldn't die. He tried to clear his throat to speak, but the man in the fine coat held up a hand and spoke with a broad grin of a proud parent. "Please, Thomas, I've been looking forward to reading this warrant more than I've looked forward to anything since the Big One." He cleared his throat. "Springheel Jack, alias Lord Jacob Blood III, alias Thomas King, alias Mike Fink, alias..."
Thomas had a flash of realization and his head snapped towards an old friend, now with a mustache and more lines under his eyes but the eyes were just as sharp. "Billy? Is that you? You’re dead!" The lawman smiled and nodded. "So are you, Barti. Good to see folks remember me."
"Excuse me," the dark man spoke, raising his eyebrows, "I believe I won the coin toss, so let me finish." He turned a page. "Alias Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Nells, alias Thaddeus Trunchell..." Thomas' mind raced. Was he not alone? For three centuries he had sailed, walked, and robbed his way across six continents and seven seas, always looking for something new. He had thought God had singled him out with the blessing or curse of life, he had been back and forth on which it was, but now it seemed there were other immortal criminals. Had it been God's work after all? What magic had brought this demon to him now out of his past? Like Faust, was it time for him to pay his due for the long life he had never asked to purchase in the first place? The names went on and on.
"Alias Elias Gale, alias Alfred Bulltop Stormalong, alias Lord Faunterloy, alias Father Michael Sangre, alias Nathan Holmes, alias Black Bart pirate, alias Bartholomew Roberts, alias Israel Hands, alias Lord Colonel Thomas Blood." He closed the file and looked up at Blood, hefting the folder questioningly, "Did I leave out anything important?"
Thomas smirked, "You forgot 'Robin of Locksley' and Johnny Appleseed."
The lawman, William, laughed out loud at this. The dark man frowned, and pulled a bill out of his pocket, handing it to him. "I knew you'd do it, Mister Blood." The smile he sent Tom was friendly, not at all that of a policeman or even a Regulator. Though his exterior was calm, he was beyond comprehending what was happening around him. He felt as though he had been at sea all his life and had finally sighted land; it was mind boggling, but he knew it was home.
The dark man sat down and folded his hands. "Mister Blood, I have met Sir Robin, and you are not him, though you are far more interesting.” He paused, as though preparing to give a carefully prepared speech, “Allow me to introduce myself. You may call me Mr. Stuyvesant, director of the National Security Administration. As you can see," he gestured to the file "We've been trying to find you for quite some time. In fact you and I have met before, fifty years ago, in Atlantic City."
Now the final piece of the puzzle clicked. During his days as William McCoy, he'd trafficked the highest-quality rum and spirits, getting him invitations to the best parties. Once at a party put on by some robber-baron, J.P. Morgan, he thought, Thomas had run into Mr. Stuyvesant. They had talked, and exchanged stories about sailing and seamanship, and building the best yachts for New England sailing. Thomas had agreed to meet with him to discuss a "matter of some great interest," but an artillery shell had changed his schedule abruptly. The man in front of him hadn’t aged a day since then, and neither had Thomas.
For the first time in a long time, Thomas was afraid. He spoke slowly, his gift for words suddenly lost, "What... you're just like me? What are you? What are we?"
"We are men, Colonel Blood." The Seer leaned forward. "Just three very old men. I won't go into the science of it, but some people simply do not die. There's no way to tell who or why, but the rarest of treasures is to find another of our kind." He looked him right in the eye and spoke with the voice of a commander. "You are not a monster, Thomas."
Thomas deflated, letting out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. He nearly wept as he listened to the answer to a question he had asked thousands of times. "Thank you."
"You are, however, in quite a bit of trouble." The Seer riffled through the pages. "By our count, over the last 300 years you've accumulated…” He paused as he found the right page, “forty-seven counts of armed robbery, eighty accounts of aggravated assault, twelve counts of grand theft, four felony theft, thirty counts of bootlegging, two hundred seventy one counts of piracy during both the 18th and 20th centuries, and forty counts of second degree murder." He looked up "We left out the misdemeanors; the file was too heavy to carry."
"I have a pardon," Tom tried to gather his wits and cleared his throat, "from King Charles II, for all crimes committed of a non-treasonous nature against England past, present, and future signed and dated with the royal seal. If you would let me go, I can get it from my safe."
The Seer chuckled. "I know, its in our file, and most of your piracy charges would fall under that heading. However, you currently face multiple death penalties or life sentences in every country in the world except Russia, since you haven’t been there since the October revolution and all previous crimes against the Czar were pardoned."
Thomas thought of his Faberge trinkets. Well, thank heaven for small favors. Thomas tried to smile, but he was so tired. "Hold fast, what am I charged with in Chipan?"
"It seems..." The Seer flipped to a page and read. "That in old china, kissing the Emperor's daughter constituted a High Crime and treason against the sovereign crown and the imperial throne.”
Thomas thought a moment and shrugged, “It was worth it. So, what is it you want from me? I believe I can only die once, unless you know otherwise. It seems a shame to have me break rocks in chains, though apparently, I have plenty of time on my hands.”
"Mister Blood, Thomas, we aren't here to punish you. We're here to save you." He stood up and hefted the file. "Three hundred years is a good run. For a wild demon it is unheard of. Our kind cannot handle what we call a short-lifer lifestyle indefinitely. Trying to do too much, too fast, and it will burn you out." He tossed the folder onto the table. "Every one of us has lived a life full of precious knowledge and experience, and we need to protect that."
William stepped forward "Its true, Tommy. If I'd tried to be the fastest gun my whole life, I'd be deader than Earp right now. Its good to sit with folks that you can talk to, folks who know what its like to see a stone wall you helped build worn away by time. Friends who won't die too fast, you know?"
Tears tugged at the corner of Tom's eye, but he wouldn't let them out. He tapped on the folder on the desk. "And I suppose you'll just make all these crimes go away? No prison, no fines, quick as you please?"
"Not quite, Mr. Blood. You are, to put it simply, the greatest thief alive. Your actions against the American Bund party helped to forestall their efforts during the Second World War, and your 'contributions' in England after the war helped immensely. We feel that with our direction your efforts could have more positive results for American global interests."
Thomas smiled slowly, as it all became clear to him. He had made this deal before when he was caught, why should now be any different? "You want me to steal for you? To steal for America?" The sureness was returning to him, a new energy and confidence in knowing.
"Let me ask you this, Colonel Blood; what if I should give you your life?"
”Mr. Stuyvesant,” Thomas looked at the Seer across three hundred years of longing, searching, waiting, and now purpose. "I would endeavor to deserve it, Sir."
***
Researchers from Yale University were puzzled today in the middle of a fact-finding expedition in the Caribbean. Working from a recently-discovered nautical map dating to the early 18th century, a cache of treasure was found belonging to the legendary pirate Edward Teach, famously known as Blackbeard. Several million dollars worth of gold and precious artifacts were found, but the strangest part of the collection was one hundred thousand dollars in twenty dollar bills matching the serial numbers of the ransom given to the infamous Dan Cooper in his skyjacking last month. Authorities are at a loss to explain the money or the cryptic note, written on modern paper with old English script:
"Here do be my toll to Davey Jones,
for letting me pass these many years
yet never causing me to stay."