Came across a smuggler’s cache yesterday—found a pinch of gunpowder and a bottle of rum. If their other hideouts are as bare, they must be in bad shape.

Rumor has it smuggling on Tortuga is run by Henry Every. Probably nonsense. His Fancy hasn’t put to sea in twenty years, though once they told legends about him.

One of them says Henry took an Indian ship whose holds were bursting with treasure. With the first broadside the lucлн pirate shot away the mainmast, and went in to board. Mr. Every fought at the fore and crossed blades with the Indian captain.

They seemed evenly matched until the Indian slipped. Henry pressed a blade to his throat, tore away the face-covering cloth, and froze—staring at a beautiful woman. A princess of the Mughal Empire.

The ship’s true captain was hiding in the hold like a coward. Henry had him keelhauled, but ordered the princess and her escort left untouched.

After that, Henry Every vanished with the riches. No one saw the princess again, either. Some said she threw herself into the sea; others, that she married a fortunate corsair…

Whether Henry Every truly built a smuggling network on Tortuga, I couldn’t say—but whoever did, my thanks.

I waited out the rain in the cache and moved on.

I’ll bury the excess gear nearby, beneath the tree marked with a red rag. Maybe I’ll visit this place again one day.

— from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, a traveler