Inspired by true events

Saint-Denis, Réunion

On the fateful eve of July 7th, 1730

"One, two, three, four..." With each ascending step of the scaffold, the man who had amassed a fortune valued at over a billion pounds stood tall before his fate. Stripped of his finery, naked in the bitter truth of life, he faced his former comrades and the hemp rope that stood between him and eternity. The infamous pirate, "La Buse," gazed upon the crimson evening sky and smiled with melancholy etched upon his weathered face.

"What a life it was," he mused, his eyes fixed on the setting sun.

"And here I stand, shackles upon my wrists, bereft of my pistols, cutlass, and loyal crew. Naught but a common man, humbled by the fickle tides of fortune," the smile slowly fading from his visage.

A tall naval officer, resplendent in his crisp uniform, stepped forward. "Have you any last words, villain? I trust this spectacle satisfies you. 'Tis what you've earned, you damnable pirate."

La Buse turned to the officer, a wry smile playing at his lips.

The officer continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "Does this amuse you? Best contemplate the fate that awaits you, you scurvy dog. This be a victory for the French crown and all of Christendom, whether you acknowledge it or no."

"I say, good sir," La Buse replied, his voice steady, "might you be so kind as to remove these shackles for but a moment?"

To the astonishment of the soldiers flanking him, the officer nodded curtly and ordered the bindings removed.

"Ah, that's more the thing," the pirate sighed. Known far and wide as the possessor of the most bountiful plunder in all the seven seas, he raised his hand to the golden chain about his neck. With a swift motion, he tore it free and cast it into the teeming crowd below the scaffold.

"Hear me, good people!" he cried, his voice ringing out over the assembled throng. "What I cast to you now is..."

— ————————————————————————————————————————

The salty breeze ruffled Olivier Levasseur's hair as he leaned against the railing of his balcony, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea met the sky. Below, the port of Calais bustled with activity, ships of all sizes docking and departing, their masts a forest of wood and canvas. Beside him, his friend Jacques Duphelix adjusted his naval cadet uniform, a stark contrast to Olivier's simple architect's attire.

"Another Spanish galleon limped into port yesterday," Jacques said, nodding towards the harbor. "This War of Spanish Succession is making some men very rich."

Olivier's lips curled into a wry smile. "Is that why you're so eager to don that uniform, mon ami? For riches and glory?"

Jacques laughed, a short, sharp sound. "For France, of course. But I won't complain if fame and fortune follow." His expression turned serious. "Though it's not just the Spanish we need to worry about these days. Have you heard about the increasing pirate attacks?"

Olivier's interest piqued. "Pirates? I thought they were just tales to frighten children and entertain ladies at salons."

"Oh, they're real enough," Jacques replied grimly. "Just last month, a merchant ship was taken off the coast of Brittany. The admiralty is in an uproar."

"How does a handful of rogues manage to overwhelm an entire ship?" Olivier asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and admiration.

Jacques shot him a sharp look. "Don't sound so impressed, Olivier. These aren't romantic heroes – they're brutal thieves. My commanding officer says they're becoming bolder, striking closer to home. The war has stretched our naval forces thin, and these pirates are taking advantage."

Olivier turned back to the sea, his eyes gleaming. "It takes a certain kind of man to defy empires and seek fortune on the high seas, doesn't it?"

"It takes a criminal," Jacques retorted. "Mark my words, once this war is over, France will turn its full attention to wiping out these pirates. I intend to be part of that effort."

"And what of the privateers?" Olivier asked, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Are they not also men seeking fortune on the seas?"

Jacques shifted uncomfortably. "That's... different. Privateers operate under Letters of Marque. They're sanctioned by the Crown, serving France by disrupting enemy trade."

Olivier nodded slowly. "So, the only difference between a pirate and a privateer is a piece of paper?"

"And loyalty to France," Jacques added quickly. "Privateers are patriots, Olivier. They're not in it just for the money. They're helping to turn the tide of this war."

"Tell me more about this war," Olivier said, turning to face his friend. "How goes the fight for the Spanish throne?"

Jacques sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's a mess, truly. King Louis fights to put his grandson on the Spanish throne, while the rest of Europe seems determined to stop him. The English, the Dutch, the Austrians – they're all aligned against us."

"And yet, we fight on," Olivier mused.

"We must," Jacques said firmly. "The balance of power in Europe hangs in the balance. If we can secure the Spanish throne, France will be the most powerful nation in the world."

Olivier nodded absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. "You're an honorable man, Jacques. France is lucky to have you." He paused, then added quietly, "But I can't help but feel we're missing it all, stuck here in Calais."

"You're an architect, Olivier. Your place is here, building the future of France."

"Perhaps," Olivier mused, his gaze returning to the distant horizon. "Or perhaps my future lies out there, waiting to be claimed."

Jacques clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, my friend. Leave the sea to sailors and pirates. Your talents are needed here."

As they turned to leave, Olivier cast one last, lingering look at the sea, the tales of piracy and adventure stirring something deep within him.

Weeks passed, and Olivier found himself increasingly restless. The War of Spanish Succession dragged on, its effects rippling through Calais. Wealthy patrons, once eager to commission grand buildings, now clutched their purses tightly. Olivier's drafting table, once covered with exciting new designs, now gathered dust.

One evening, as he nursed a glass of wine in a dockside tavern, Le Corsaire Intrépide, Olivier overheard a group of sailors discussing a recent privateer success.

"Took a Spanish treasure ship, they did," one grizzled sailor said, his voice carrying over the din of the tavern. "The captain's set for life now, and the crew's not far behind."

Olivier leaned in, listening intently as the sailors recounted tales of daring raids and immense fortunes. The excitement in their voices was palpable, a stark contrast to the subdued atmosphere that had settled over Calais.

"And you say this was a privateer ship?" Olivier asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

The sailors turned to him, eyeing his fine clothes with a mix of suspicion and amusement. "Aye, monsieur," the grizzled sailor replied. "Flying under a Letter of Marque, they were. Doing the King's work, so to speak."

"The King's work," Olivier repeated softly. "And well rewarded for it, it seems."

The sailor grinned, revealing a mouth with several missing teeth. "That's the beauty of it, monsieur. You get to serve France and line your pockets at the same time. Not a bad life, if you've got the stomach for it."

The next day, drawn by an irresistible curiosity, Olivier found himself at the docks. He watched as privateer ships prepared for their next voyage, the crews bustling about with purpose. The energy was palpable, so different from the lethargic pace that had settled over the town.

One ship, in particular, caught his eye. La Liberté, her name proudly displayed on her hull, was a sleek vessel, clearly built for speed and maneuverability. As Olivier watched, a man who could only be the captain strode down the gangplank. He carried himself with confidence, his clothes fine but practical.

Before he could stop himself, Olivier approached the man. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Your ship, she's beautiful."

The captain turned, eyeing Olivier with curiosity. "That she is, monsieur. Are you a sailor?"

Olivier shook his head. "An architect, actually. But I find myself... intrigued by the life of a privateer."

The captain laughed, a rich, full sound. "It's not a life for everyone, monsieur. It takes courage, quick thinking, and a strong stomach. But for those who can handle it..." He gestured expansively at La Liberté. "Well, the rewards can be substantial."

As Olivier continued to chat with the captain, learning more about the life of a privateer, he felt something stirring within him. The life of an architect suddenly seemed pale, constrained. The sea called to him, promising adventure, wealth, and a chance to serve France in a way he'd never imagined.

That night, Olivier paced his study, mind racing. By dawn, his decision was made. He would apply for a Letter of Marque. The architect would become a privateer, and the sea would be his new home.Inspired by true events

Saint-Denis, Réunion

On the fateful eve of July 7th, 1730

"One, two, three, four..." With each ascending step of the scaffold, the man who had amassed a fortune valued at over a billion pounds stood tall before his fate. Stripped of his finery, naked in the bitter truth of life, he faced his former comrades and the hemp rope that stood between him and eternity. The infamous pirate, "La Buse," gazed upon the crimson evening sky and smiled with melancholy etched upon his weathered face.

"What a life it was," he mused, his eyes fixed on the setting sun.

"And here I stand, shackles upon my wrists, bereft of my pistols, cutlass, and loyal crew. Naught but a common man, humbled by the fickle tides of fortune," the smile slowly fading from his visage.

A tall naval officer, resplendent in his crisp uniform, stepped forward. "Have you any last words, villain? I trust this spectacle satisfies you. 'Tis what you've earned, you damnable pirate."

La Buse turned to the officer, a wry smile playing at his lips.

The officer continued, his voice dripping with contempt, "Does this amuse you? Best contemplate the fate that awaits you, you scurvy dog. This be a victory for the French crown and all of Christendom, whether you acknowledge it or no."

"I say, good sir," La Buse replied, his voice steady, "might you be so kind as to remove these shackles for but a moment?"

To the astonishment of the soldiers flanking him, the officer nodded curtly and ordered the bindings removed.

"Ah, that's more the thing," the pirate sighed. Known far and wide as the possessor of the most bountiful plunder in all the seven seas, he raised his hand to the golden chain about his neck. With a swift motion, he tore it free and cast it into the teeming crowd below the scaffold.

"Hear me, good people!" he cried, his voice ringing out over the assembled throng. "What I cast to you now is..."

— ————————————————————————————————————————

The salty breeze ruffled Olivier Levasseur's hair as he leaned against the railing of his balcony, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea met the sky. Below, the port of Calais bustled with activity, ships of all sizes docking and departing, their masts a forest of wood and canvas. Beside him, his friend Jacques Duphelix adjusted his naval cadet uniform, a stark contrast to Olivier's simple architect's attire.

"Another Spanish galleon limped into port yesterday," Jacques said, nodding towards the harbor. "This War of Spanish Succession is making some men very rich."

Olivier's lips curled into a wry smile. "Is that why you're so eager to don that uniform, mon ami? For riches and glory?"

Jacques laughed, a short, sharp sound. "For France, of course. But I won't complain if fame and fortune follow." His expression turned serious. "Though it's not just the Spanish we need to worry about these days. Have you heard about the increasing pirate attacks?"

Olivier's interest piqued. "Pirates? I thought they were just tales to frighten children and entertain ladies at salons."

"Oh, they're real enough," Jacques replied grimly. "Just last month, a merchant ship was taken off the coast of Brittany. The admiralty is in an uproar."

"How does a handful of rogues manage to overwhelm an entire ship?" Olivier asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and admiration.

Jacques shot him a sharp look. "Don't sound so impressed, Olivier. These aren't romantic heroes – they're brutal thieves. My commanding officer says they're becoming bolder, striking closer to home. The war has stretched our naval forces thin, and these pirates are taking advantage."

Olivier turned back to the sea, his eyes gleaming. "It takes a certain kind of man to defy empires and seek fortune on the high seas, doesn't it?"

"It takes a criminal," Jacques retorted. "Mark my words, once this war is over, France will turn its full attention to wiping out these pirates. I intend to be part of that effort."

"And what of the privateers?" Olivier asked, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Are they not also men seeking fortune on the seas?"

Jacques shifted uncomfortably. "That's... different. Privateers operate under Letters of Marque. They're sanctioned by the Crown, serving France by disrupting enemy trade."

Olivier nodded slowly. "So, the only difference between a pirate and a privateer is a piece of paper?"

"And loyalty to France," Jacques added quickly. "Privateers are patriots, Olivier. They're not in it just for the money. They're helping to turn the tide of this war."

"Tell me more about this war," Olivier said, turning to face his friend. "How goes the fight for the Spanish throne?"

Jacques sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's a mess, truly. King Louis fights to put his grandson on the Spanish throne, while the rest of Europe seems determined to stop him. The English, the Dutch, the Austrians – they're all aligned against us."

"And yet, we fight on," Olivier mused.

"We must," Jacques said firmly. "The balance of power in Europe hangs in the balance. If we can secure the Spanish throne, France will be the most powerful nation in the world."

Olivier nodded absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. "You're an honorable man, Jacques. France is lucky to have you." He paused, then added quietly, "But I can't help but feel we're missing it all, stuck here in Calais."

"You're an architect, Olivier. Your place is here, building the future of France."

"Perhaps," Olivier mused, his gaze returning to the distant horizon. "Or perhaps my future lies out there, waiting to be claimed."

Jacques clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, my friend. Leave the sea to sailors and pirates. Your talents are needed here."

As they turned to leave, Olivier cast one last, lingering look at the sea, the tales of piracy and adventure stirring something deep within him.

Weeks passed, and Olivier found himself increasingly restless. The War of Spanish Succession dragged on, its effects rippling through Calais. Wealthy patrons, once eager to commission grand buildings, now clutched their purses tightly. Olivier's drafting table, once covered with exciting new designs, now gathered dust.

One evening, as he nursed a glass of wine in a dockside tavern, Le Corsaire Intrépide, Olivier overheard a group of sailors discussing a recent privateer success.

"Took a Spanish treasure ship, they did," one grizzled sailor said, his voice carrying over the din of the tavern. "The captain's set for life now, and the crew's not far behind."

Olivier leaned in, listening intently as the sailors recounted tales of daring raids and immense fortunes. The excitement in their voices was palpable, a stark contrast to the subdued atmosphere that had settled over Calais.

"And you say this was a privateer ship?" Olivier asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

The sailors turned to him, eyeing his fine clothes with a mix of suspicion and amusement. "Aye, monsieur," the grizzled sailor replied. "Flying under a Letter of Marque, they were. Doing the King's work, so to speak."

"The King's work," Olivier repeated softly. "And well rewarded for it, it seems."

The sailor grinned, revealing a mouth with several missing teeth. "That's the beauty of it, monsieur. You get to serve France and line your pockets at the same time. Not a bad life, if you've got the stomach for it."

The next day, drawn by an irresistible curiosity, Olivier found himself at the docks. He watched as privateer ships prepared for their next voyage, the crews bustling about with purpose. The energy was palpable, so different from the lethargic pace that had settled over the town.

One ship, in particular, caught his eye. La Liberté, her name proudly displayed on her hull, was a sleek vessel, clearly built for speed and maneuverability. As Olivier watched, a man who could only be the captain strode down the gangplank. He carried himself with confidence, his clothes fine but practical.

Before he could stop himself, Olivier approached the man. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Your ship, she's beautiful."

The captain turned, eyeing Olivier with curiosity. "That she is, monsieur. Are you a sailor?"

Olivier shook his head. "An architect, actually. But I find myself... intrigued by the life of a privateer."

The captain laughed, a rich, full sound. "It's not a life for everyone, monsieur. It takes courage, quick thinking, and a strong stomach. But for those who can handle it..." He gestured expansively at La Liberté. "Well, the rewards can be substantial."

As Olivier continued to chat with the captain, learning more about the life of a privateer, he felt something stirring within him. The life of an architect suddenly seemed pale, constrained. The sea called to him, promising adventure, wealth, and a chance to serve France in a way he'd never imagined.

That night, Olivier paced his study, mind racing. By dawn, his decision was made. He would apply for a Letter of Marque. The architect would become a privateer, and the sea would be his new home.