The Redemption of Black Bart by Olivia Salter | Short Fiction

 

The Redemption of Black Bart

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,354

Bartholomew “Black Bart” Roberts was feared and loathed across the Caribbean. A tall, rugged figure, his raven-black hair and piercing gaze struck terror into the hearts of all who crossed his path. His ship, The Fortune’s Call, boasted sails as dark as midnight and a flag marked with skeletons gripping hourglasses—Bart’s infamous symbol, warning that time was running out for anyone unlucky enough to face him. A strategist at heart, Bart valued cunning over brute force, striking swiftly and vanishing into the horizon before his enemies even realized the threat.

Though the life of piracy had gifted Bart with unimaginable wealth, it hadn’t granted him peace. For months now, he’d been haunted by strange, troubling dreams. He’d see the faces of men he had betrayed, ships he’d burned, and families he’d left destitute. Each dream ended with a slow, steady ticking—an hourglass dripping its last grains of sand.

One night, as Bart stood alone on the deck, a chill swept over him, and the familiar sensation of being watched made his skin prickle. The moon hung low over the water, illuminating the sea with an unnatural, silvery glow. Bart narrowed his eyes at the stillness, sensing something unearthly.

Suddenly, a soft voice broke the silence. “Time is slipping away, Bart.”

Bart turned sharply, but the deck was empty. His grip on his cutlass tightened. Though he had long since buried any sense of fear, this voice, low and mournful, struck deep. For the first time in years, he felt a sliver of doubt worrying him.

Shaking off the unease, Bart steeled himself. Tomorrow, he would lead his crew to raid the wealthiest merchant vessel in the area—a ship carrying treasures destined for the Governor of Havana. It would be his most daring haul yet. Rallying his crew, Bart shouted, “Tomorrow, we’ll be richer than any king!” The men roared their approval, their greed overpowering any fear they might feel.

But even as he spoke, Bart felt a strange hollowness in his words. The thrill that had once driven him seemed distant, replaced by a subtle, creeping dread that tightened around him like a noose.

***

The Fortune’s Call sailed through a dense fog as dawn broke, the mist wrapping around the ship in ghostly twists. Bart’s crew moved in uneasy silence, the usual camaraderie replaced by tense glances toward the horizon. Bart himself felt the weight of an unseen presence pressing down on him, something ancient and heavy. But he kept his focus on the task ahead, ignoring the eerie stillness.

The target vessel emerged from the fog, a grand merchant ship with polished wood and sails that gleamed in the dim morning light. Bart raised his cutlass and signaled the attack. His crew swarmed aboard, swift and ruthless, overpowering the merchant sailors in minutes.

Bart descended into the cargo hold, eager to lay eyes on the treasure he’d risked so much to capture. But when he opened the first crate, he froze. Inside were not gold or jewels but hourglasses—hundreds of them, their sands trickling down in synchronized, relentless rhythm.

A cold shiver ran down his spine as he watched the hourglasses. The tick-tick of the sand seemed to echo in his ears, growing louder with each second. He staggered back, feeling his heart pound as shadowy figures began to form in the edges of his vision. They floated toward him, their faces familiar yet skeletal, hollow-eyed, and accusing.

These were the men he’d betrayed, the ships he’d sunk, the families he’d torn apart. They hovered around him, holding hourglasses of their own, the sands slipping through at an agonizing pace. Bart’s breath hitched as he recognized their faces—the young merchant he’d left stranded, the deckhand who’d begged for mercy, the captain whose ship he’d sunk without a thought.

“You… you’re dead,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. The figures said nothing, their hollow eyes staring into him, their hourglasses ticking. The room felt colder, and his chest tightened with a suffocating weight of guilt he couldn’t ignore.

“Leave me,” he snarled, desperation slipping into his tone. But the figures remained unmoved. As he backed toward the stairs, the voice from his dreams echoed through the hold, louder and clearer than ever. “Time is slipping, Bart.”

Overwhelmed, Bart stumbled back to the deck, the eerie calm of the fog pressing in around him. His men watched him with confused glances, sensing their captain’s turmoil. For the first time, Bart didn’t know if he was running from the ghost or from himself.

***

Haunted and unraveling, Bart ordered his crew to set a course away from the raid. For days, he wandered the decks, unable to shake the vision of the hourglasses or the hollow eyes of his victims. His once-unbreakable courage was fracturing, his legendary ruthlessness fading with every passing night. Bart realized with a sense of dread that he had only one course left: he needed to face his past.

He gathered his remaining crew and ordered them to sail for his childhood village, a remote place where he had once dreamed of a life far different from piracy. Some of the crew protested, unable to understand why their captain would turn away from a life of wealth and power, but Bart silenced them with a dark, determined look. Only a few loyal men remained, too awed or afraid to abandon him entirely.

As they neared the shore of his village, Bart felt a strange calm wash over him. He ordered the men to unload the cargo of treasure they’d stolen over the years, instructing them to give it back to the people of the village. Watching the villagers come forward, cautious and wary, Bart saw their fear give way to shock and then something he hadn’t seen in years—gratitude.

He walked among them, handing gold coins and precious gems to widows, orphans, and those who had been victims of his greed. Though he knew no amount of wealth could right his wrongs, he felt a weight lift with each treasure he surrendered.

But just as the final piece was placed in a trembling villager’s hand, a familiar, icy chill swept over him. Bart turned to the water, where the mist had thickened, forming shadows that danced across the waves. The ghost figures appeared again, each one holding an hourglass that glowed faintly in the dim light. They stood there, silent, watching.

Bart took a deep breath, feeling an odd serenity as he faced them. The figures nodded, their hollow eyes no longer accusing but almost… approving. The hourglasses in their hands stilled, and one by one, the apparitions faded back into the mist.

But one figure remained—a version of himself, young and unscarred by the life he had chosen. This ghostly image of Bart looked at him with a gaze that was not bitter or resentful, but reflective, as though recognizing the man Bart had become. Bart raised a hand, and the specter mirrored the motion, nodding once before vanishing.

As the last of the mist cleared, Bart felt the weight of years lift from his shoulders. He looked back to his remaining crew, who stood watching in stunned silence. “Take what remains and sail,” he commanded. “I’ll not be joining you.”

They left, casting nervous glances back at the man who had once been their fearless leader, now a shadow of his former self but somehow… whole.

***

In the years that followed, stories spread of Black Bart’s final voyage and the mysterious treasure he’d given back to the villagers. They spoke of the pirate who had come to face his own sins, who had looked into the eyes of his victims and, in the end, chosen redemption over wealth. Some whispered that his ghost still walked the shores, watching over the village as a silent guardian.

On misty nights, travelers swore they could hear the faint ticking of an hourglass, an eerie reminder of Bart’s final journey. And for those brave enough to listen, the sea seemed to murmur a tale of a man who, in his last days, had finally found peace.