Pirates are searching the ruins for something. I hid among the rocks to listen in and caught the name Israel Hands. Nearly gave myself away.

Plenty of rumors circulate about him on Tortuga. They say Hands was born into a large merchant family in Bristol. The elder brothers inherited the business—while he, as in a fairy tale, was left with nothing but a cat.

And as if that weren’t enough, his father was said to hit the bottle almost every night, beating both his wife and his youngest son—for good measure.

One evening, after the old man once again had one too many, misfortune struck: he tumbled down the stairs and smashed his head… at least a dozen times. Took a few ribs with it too. Must have been a very long staircase.

After that, Hands decided to take fate into his own hands and ran off to see the fabled New World. In the harbor he signed on with a small privateer vessel, where he met Edward Teach. Later, without much thought, Hands followed him into the service of Benjamin Hornigold, back when Hornigold was still a pirate himself.

They say it was under Hornigold that Hands earned the nickname “Basilica.” Whether for a fondness for churches—or for nuns—I couldn’t say.

I don’t know what Hands’ men are looking for here, but I’d best put some distance between us. Even wolves are safer company.

As usual, I’ll have to stash my excess belongings beneath a fallen log marked with a red cloth…

— from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler