Several years later, the dutch galleon De Prins van Oranje was docked at the pier of Tiburon Bay's harbor. The dockworkers were unloading the goods—rolling barrels down the ramps and lowering crates filled with loading and unloading gear. With a creak, a crate slowly rose from the ship's hold, swaying ominously in the air like a pendulum. The men on the dock tightened the ropes, skillfully guiding it so it wouldn't crash against the ship's hull. Once it was set down on the pier, a man approached, checked the recipient's name, and jotted it down in a notebook:
"To Virgilio Coppieter, 25 Mollusk Street."
Whistling, he called over an old man, who hurried over with a cart.
"Deliver this package to this address," the foreman said, handing him a piece of paper.
The old man loaded the crate onto the cart and rattled his way to the given address, which turned out to be a small general store selling groceries and other goods. On the facade, painted in Garamond-style lettering, was the name: Van Buuren's Chest. Upon arrival, the old man opened the door, triggering a bell that alerted the shop assistant—a young mulatta woman with blue eyes, sitting on a stool by the counter, reading a book. The old man walked past the shelves of merchandise.
"What've you got for us, Papa Smurf?" the girl asked playfully.
"A package arrived for someone named Virgilio Coppieter, addressed here."
The girl stepped forward to examine the crate, checking the address and sender: Van Dijk & Zoon Uitgevers Publishing House, Amsterdam.
"It's all good, Papa Smurf," she said, handing the old man a tip. He left, pushing his cart back toward the harbor.
The young woman, Sammy, granddaughter of Balin, called out to her grandfather. He was in the back room writing when he was interrupted.
"A crate just arrived from Amsterdam," the girl said.
The old man set aside his work and rushed to inspect the delivery. Using a crowbar, with his granddaughter's help, he pried the crate open, revealing a batch of books. Sammy picked one up and read the title on the spine: The Legend of the Uncharted Island.
"You bought a batch of books?" Sammy asked.
Balin peered into the crate and found a letter bearing the publisher's seal. He took it, broke the wax seal, and began reading. Sammy curiously glanced at the stack of books before turning to her grandfather, whose expression darkened with each line he read. When he finished, he sighed and folded the letter.
"What's wrong, Grandpa?" Sammy asked, puzzled.
Balin looked at his granddaughter.
"The publisher is informing me that, despite a few sales, the book has been labeled a literary failure. They're returning the last print run and wishing me luck on future projects."
"Why are they notifying you?" Sammy asked.
Balin tore up the letter and walked back toward the storeroom, his granddaughter following him.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked.
The writer collapsed into a worn-out armchair in the corner of the small office, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Sammy... I wrote that novel under a pseudonym," he said.
The girl stared at him in surprise, her brow furrowing.
"Why did you do that?"
"I wanted to take a chance. If I published the novel under a different name, maybe my luck would change."
Sammy knelt before her grandfather and took his hand.
"Grandpa, your novel was thrilling—I loved it. And knowing it was you makes it even better! Imagine if it had been a hit—you would've been competing against yourself!"
The old man forced a somewhat bitter smile.
"Thank you, sweetheart. No doubt you love your grandfather. I invested so much time into writing it—more than ten years! All my hopes were pinned on that manuscript, but from what I see, I'm a relic of the past. It's simply… over. I once knew glory as a writer, and now I've fallen, fading into oblivion."
Sammy leaned back and fixed her grandfather with a determined look.
"Nonsense," she said. "We'll sell these books, and that manuscript you're writing will be a huge success. Just wait—when we publish in New York or Boston, things will go better."
Balin put his glasses back on, stroked her cheek with his palm, and smiled.
"Maybe it's best if I retire… The era of pirate tales is out of fashion. People are more interested in romance and courtly stories like those of Eliza Haywood," Balin said, glancing at the store's shelves, which included a small section of books. He sighed.
"Go home, Grandpa," Sammy said. "I'll take care of the shop."
"There's no need, dear; we're closing early."
"Grandpa, it's not even five in the afternoon."
"I don't think any more customers will come. Make sure to lock up and go help Sally," he instructed.
Then, he stood up, took his coat and tricorn hat from the pegs on the wall, and went out for a walk to clear his mind. His granddaughter accompanied him to the door and stood in the threshold, watching him walk away with his hands in his pockets, his head bowed.
Balin strolled toward the harbor, passing townspeople going about their business. He walked past buildings that blended Georgian and Caribbean styles, some incorporating salvaged ship wood into their structures. Finally, he reached the port and inhaled the salty sea air, tinged with the scent of shellfish. The ships, their sails furled, rocked gently in the harbor, while in the distance, Queen Anne's Fort loomed atop a cliff, guarding the harbor entrance. Beyond its defensive role, it served as the governor's residence. Its cannons pointed toward the horizon, ready to defend the enclave, and at the top of the fortress, the Union Flag fluttered in the wind, marking its presence as the guardian of the bay.
Balin searched for a place to sit and gaze at the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set. Memories of the past flooded his mind—like that night when he and his wife decided to flee London to escape debtors' prison. They had left with only the essentials and their two-year-old daughter, seeking refuge on Isla Negra. With the little money old Van Buuren had managed to bring from the continent, he had opened a small goods shop, which had allowed them to survive.
"Well, Balin, you had your moments of glory… What else could go wrong today?" he murmured after sighing.
******
Meanwhile, at the shop, Sammy hurried to place the crate of books in a corner, pulled out a few volumes, and began arranging them on the new arrivals shelf alongside the latest popular novels, including those by Daniel Defoe, Jonathan Swift, and, of course, Eliza Haywood, hoping to sell a few. She knew her grandfather would rather burn them than see them gather dust; she knew him too well. After all, she had lived with him since she was little, growing up in a modest house near the cliffs, across the harbor.
The girl finished her tasks for the day and prepared to leave. She grabbed her straw hat from the coat rack in the backroom, secured the doors and windows, and stepped out of the shop, heading toward the Swan Pond Tavern.
On her way, Sammy encountered several townspeople, greeting them as she passed—the blacksmith, a harbor innkeeper carrying a barrel, and a sturdy Black man hauling bundles of cloth. A pair of young women stopped to greet her. One was a strong-built blonde, the other a slender redhead, both dressed in fine linen, wide skirts, and corsets. They wore straw hats adorned with ribbons or flowers and carried parasols. They were the baker's twin daughters, considered part of the local gentry.
"Hello, Miss Van Buuren, we were just heading to the shop, weren't we, Betsy?" said the blonde.
"Oh yes, Abby," Betsy, the twin, replied.
"Miss Swift, we closed early today, but is there anything I can help you with?" Sammy asked with a smile.
"We wanted to know if you've received the latest novel by Eliza Haywood," said Betsy.
"The Masqueraders; or, Fatal Curiosity," Abby added.
Sammy smiled and shook her head.
"It hasn't arrived yet. We already placed an order with London, but we did receive a batch of novels you might be interested."
The two young women beamed.
"What's the title?" Abby asked.
"Who's the author?" Betsy added.
"The title is The Legend of the Uncharted Island by Virgilio Coppieter. It's an excellent book, full of adventure; it keeps you on the edge of excitement and suspense."
The twins exchanged glances.
"Is it a pirate story?" Abby asked.
Sammy nodded with a smile.
"It's a great novel. If you enjoy the genre, you'll love it. If you'd like, I can send two copies to your home right away."
The young women hesitated, making a doubtful expression.
"We'd rather wait for the latest Eliza Haywood," Betsy said.
The two ladies bid her farewell and continued on their way. Sammy sighed and kept walking, crossing the town square, where vendors were beginning to pack up their stalls. All of it unfolded under the cold bronze gaze of Gustave Hawk's statue—the island's current governor—standing imposingly in the center of the plaza.
When Sammy arrived at the tavern, the main hall was still moderately busy. The walls were adorned with nautical objects, a portrait of the King of England, depictions of famous buccaneers, and reproductions of naval-themed paintings. The tavern's owner, Sally Morgan, had once been a feared pirate but had decided to retire from that trade and dedicate her ship, The Swan, to smuggling and transporting goods, as well as running the Swan Pond Tavern. Sally was at the bar, tallying the day's sales, when she saw Sammy enter.
"You're early," she remarked.
"My grandfather wanted to close the shop earlier than usual, so here I am to help."
"Everything all right with Mr. Van Buuren?"
"Nothing serious, just… writer things," the girl replied, about to head to the kitchen but then paused.
"Sally, we received a batch of books. You might be interested…"
"What novel is it?" Sally asked, still jotting down numbers in her ledgers, glasses resting at the tip of her nose.
"The Legend of the Uncharted Island by Virgilio Coppieter" Sammy said with a seller's smile.
Sally glanced at the girl, bent down, pulled out a worn-covered book from under the counter, and placed it on the bar.
"I already read it," she said. "And I wouldn't read another novel by that Virgilio guy. Bored me to tears."
With that, the pirate resumed her calculations. The girl narrowed her eyes in resignation, sighed, and walked away.
The girl entered the kitchen, which had a large stone hearth with iron pots hanging from chains, where stews, soups, and broths were being cooked. From the ceiling hung all kinds of pans and pots, as well as sausages and cheeses, kept out of reach of the cats that occasionally came in for an inspection. At the back, there was a door leading to a storeroom where barrels, sacks of flour, potatoes, and all sorts of vegetables were kept, along with preserves. The cook was a plump woman known as Mrs. Marley, who was assisted by two girls, and her temper was well-known throughout the port.
"How can I help?" the young woman asked after greeting them.
"You can bread those fish for frying," Mrs. Marley instructed.
Sammy nodded, put on an apron, and got to work.
At that moment, Cody Harris walked in—a lanky, thin boy with blond hair, a freckled face, and blue eyes. Sammy and he had known each other since they were babies. Like her, he was an orphan and had grown up with his aunt, Connie Harris, who was the landlady of the Van Buuren's shop. Sammy had always been adventurous, often crossing swords with the ruffians on the beach, while Cody, more easygoing, shared her love for adventure novels and the dream of traveling the world.
"You're here early," Cody said.
"Your powers of observation are truly impressive," Sammy replied sarcastically as she worked.
"Why did you close early?"
Sammy stabbed the knife into the wooden board and placed the floured fish into a pot.
"My grandfather got depressed over some news from the publisher,"Sammy Said.
"He wrote another novel?"
Sammy looked around cautiously and whispered:
"I'm going to tell you a secret, but you have to swear not to tell anyone!"
Cody raised his right hand and placed his left over his chest.
"He published it under a pseudonym, hoping it would be a success," Sammy said.
"Really? What name did he use?"
Sammy lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper.
"Virgilio Coppieter."
"He wrote that novel about…?" Cody began to say, surprised.
Sammy signaled him to be quiet.
"But it didn't work. According to Grandpa, that kind of adventure story doesn't sell anymore."
"So what does sell now?"
"Romances, like the ones by Eliza Haywood."
Cody stuck out his tongue in disgust.
"I prefer adventure stories," he said, grabbing a wooden spoon and holding it up to Sammy.
"En garde!," he challenged.
Sammy looked around and found a rolling pin.
"Let's see how brave you are," she said, wielding the utensil like a sword.
They began play-fighting, drawing the amused attention of the kitchen assistants as they clashed their wooden weapons, reenacting a sword fight from a boarding scene in an adventure novel.
The kitchen assistants laughed until they were caught by Mrs. Marley, who emerged from the storeroom carrying a sack of potatoes.
"ENOUGH!," she shouted, dropping the sack to the floor. "If you're going to play, go to the beach! this is a workplace! And you, Cody, don't you have tables to tend to?"
The two quickly straightened up and returned to their tasks, as did the kitchen assistants.
"Next time, you won't be so lucky," Cody said before leaving.
"I'll be waiting for the challenge," Sammy replied, continuing to bread the fish.