Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Read Online Free PDF

And why shouldn’t there be? The young man had already lived more in his short life than most men Finkle’s age. A smuggler from Dublin, he’d been in and out of trouble with British authorities for years before receiving his letters of marque from the French. It was through the French that Finkle had first learned of the upstart Irish captain, and it was through the scientist’s French connections that introductions were made. Reardon had agreed—with a few conditions—to allow his vessel to be used for their expedition.
    Of course, the captain had held his own reasons for agreeing to help. With lofty ambitions, he had his eyes set on obtaining letters of marque from the Continental Navy and to earn a princely booty for wreaking havoc against the Royal merchant fleet that had sullied his name, while he served in the official navy. There was no better way to prove himself than by leading his ragtag crew of men—both patriot and cutthroat—as well as Finkle’s own group, to the dangerous jungles of the Caribbean and Florida for their prize.
    “And it’s not just the witch, sir,” the captain continued. Finkle decided to let the man vent before presenting his own side. “You cost me a good man in poor William. He’d been with me for the last three years, and was loyal as they come. And on top of it all, ye bring a disease-ridden corpse into the hold of me ship! What were ye thinkin’, man?”
    “I told him as such, Captain,” Greer, who’d been sulking in the corner of the captain’s cabin since they’d arrived, finally spoke up. “But he was much more interested in criticizing and berating me in front of the men than listening.”
    Reardon glared at his quartermaster in silence for a few moments, and Finkle knew he was trying to decide how to respond to that. He and Greer had served together only a short time. They’d apparently never been friends, but Greer was a trusted crewman. The captain, however, had never wanted Greer as his quartermaster on this expedition. He’d had his own man for the job, but the French outfitter, Jean Francois Torris, who’d supplied the Mark with its sixteen eight-pounder guns, had insisted on Greer, to pay off a debt. Greer had never let Reardon forget that he was the captain’s second choice, and he had been a thorn in the captain’s side the entire trip from France to the Caribbean. The quartermaster, therefore, was one thing on which both Reardon and Finkle could agree.
    “Captain, if I may,” Finkle said, setting his tankard down on the table and leaning back in his seat. “First of all, you have my sincerest of apologies for the loss of young William. From what I saw of him, he was a good man, and will certainly be missed. I’d offer to replace him, however, as you know, I’ve become a bit of an abolitionist in recent years. Freed the few slaves in my possession, and would find it distasteful to purchase another for you. However, I will be glad to make reparations for your loss in other ways.”
    Captain Reardon waved the issue away, then nodded for him to continue.
    “Secondly, the…witch, as you call her, and the corpse are inextricably linked. One will do us no bit of good without the other.”
    “What good does a corpse do for us anyway? That’s what I’d like to know!” Greer was now standing, pointing a long, double-jointed finger at Finkle’s face.
    “Greer! Sit down!” Reardon barked. The quartermaster immediately complied, and the captain returned his gaze to the older man. “He does, however, make an excellent point.”
    “He does. But what he doesn’t realize is that I believe that the man resting in your hold below is not, in fact, dead.”
    “What? He is as desiccated as an Egyptian mummy, sir.” Greer was back on his feet, a look of incredulity across his face. “You would have us believe he is just taking a wee nap then?”
    “I had a chance to speak privately with the witch doctor as we made the trek back to shore last night,”