The Sad and Inevitable Demise of Tiara Jewel
Her eyeballs stirred under pasted lids. They wouldn’t open. The muted light smoldered, gritty and sticky. Her head slipped to the right, and the beating sun scorched her dark, sunblasted cheek.
The opposite end of her body experienced a different stimulus. While one foot was bare, her cavalier bucket-top boot still protected the other. With rhythmic symmetry, her feet were immersed in cooling water, then exposed to the full heat of the blistering sun. A moment passed, and again, the rushing water cooled her right foot while her booted foot floated with the whims of the tide.
Vaguely aware of the searing pain that ran through her, a tortured moan rumbled in her throat. Sand stuck to her face, adding to the torment of regaining her sight. Cloudy consciousness began to prevail. Her head rolled left and then right, emitting a low, pain-filled moan. In an attempt to wipe away the crust that glued her eyelids shut, she tried to raise her left hand, but it would not respond.
An alternate attempt using the back of her right hand was partially successful. With the motion, rough grains of sand scraped across her face. On a second pass, the lids began to peel apart, starting in the center and then popping free at the edges. Eyes bursting open, the midday sun singed her corneas. Her face contorted, and she recoiled onto her side to avoid the blasting sunshine.
As she rolled, a series of stabbing pains shot through her body. Her legs, her back, her arms, all screamed in misery. She hurt everywhere. The intense agony forced her to freeze, then settle back to her original position.
Her left arm dropped across her face to protect her eyes from the glare. Her right pounded the sand. A scream of pain and frustration burst from her soul.
The pain emanated from her many wounds. The frustration stemmed from her stupidity.
“Arrr! You son of a whore.”
Two deep breaths, and Tiara Jewel pressed against the soggy sand to rise onto her elbows. Unbearable pain seared through her left hand. Looking down through blurred eyes, she saw that the first two fingers were gone. Bloody stumps, congealed with sand and seawater, were all that remained. Releasing a loud groan, she sat up as best she could. One torturous stretch at a time, her elbows scooched beneath her for elevation.
Grimacing and gasping for breath, Tiara’s muddled vision adjusted to the scene before her. Coming into focus were her threadbare, cracked, black leather pants. Blood-soaked and covered in drying sea salt, seaweed, and sand, they had been sliced open, exposing a gaping gash up her right thigh. The slash started just above her knee and swept up and outward toward her hip, leaving a twelve-inch-long, one-inch deep, cavernous wound. The contrast of the deep red blood and her dark skin made the wound look even worse. She could see the thigh muscle, radish-red; severed and bleeding.
That is going to leave a scar.
Achieving a full sitting position, she slumped forward over her bloody leg. Holding her severed hand across her thigh, Tiara took stock of her surroundings as she assessed any immediate threats. Her long, black hair, tangled and matted with sand and seaweed, hung over her face. Tucking it behind her ears with her good hand, she looked left and then right. The surrounding environment, as familiar to her as her captain’s cabin, represented an old friend.
She lay wounded on a beach.
Of course. If I’m not on my ship, I’m on a beach. Nothing odd about that.
Twenty yards behind her grew a row of coconut trees, along with dozens of large, sprawling ferns. The thought of shade appealed to her in a way that few things ever had.
If I can get there, I can figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
The throbbing in her leg mounted as the wound continued to ooze blood. She had to stop the bleeding if she had any hope of survival.
Unbuckling her wide leather belt, she slipped it from her waist. The knife, which had been forever attached to her belt, had disappeared. Her lips pursed.
Damn it!
Leaning forward, she lifted her right leg and slid the belt underneath. With a grimace, she slid the belt up to her crotch and pulled it tight. The bleeding slowed, but the pain increased.
Damn, that hurts.
Temporarily bound, she began to drag her soaking wet ass out of the sun and toward the tree line. Using her right arm and her left leg, she managed to crawl on her backside over the sand. Her double-breasted jacket and gold doublet bunched up beneath her and, being dripping wet, weighed her down. Unwrapping a piece of unwanted seaweed from the sleeve of the coat, she abandoned both after several feet. The empty sword sheath, which hung limply over her shoulder, also caused considerable resistance. Then she realized the De-Coronator, the legendary sword passed down to her by the revered Blackhearted Bart, had also disappeared. No doubt at the bottom of the bay. She shook her head and pounded at the sand once again.
Ah, God damn it!
She inhaled deeply, forcing her mind away from the heartbreaking loss. There was nothing to be done about that either. Pulling the strap of the sheath over her head, she tossed it aside.
Her butt crawl continued. Scooting a half-body length at a time, she made her way closer to shade.
An agonizing ten minutes later, accompanied by several verbal grunts and outbursts of pain, she leaned against the trunk of a coconut tree.
Breathless and exhausted, on the verge of unconsciousness once again, she fought off a wave of nausea.
What in Hades do I do now?
Pushing the pain aside, as best she could, she did a reconnaissance of her surroundings.
She found herself, not on an island, but on an atoll—a circular island formed by coral reefs that surround a central lagoon. The lush vegetation that circled the lagoon provided the welcome shade, and she relished the few-degree drop in temperature.
Her leg screamed with agonizing pain. Her sword and dagger lounged at the bottom of the sea, lost forever. Patting her stomach, she found her pistol, which had somehow miraculously remained tucked into her waistline. However, the pouch with extra cartridges had been lost, making the pistol useless.
Her head dropped back against the coconut tree trunk. Her eyes closed, and with a huge inhale, she filled her lungs.
At least I’m still breathing.
Consciously slowing her breathing, she calmed herself.
It’s going to take more than this to kill me.
Unwilling to admit defeat, she did what she always did in dire situations. She reached for the courage that lay within, the courage that had taken her so far in this life. The courage that had allowed her to live the life of a pirate.
Remember who you are! You’re the meanest bitch on the ocean!
“I am Tiara Jewel!” she yelled to the waves, “Feared through all of these Caribbean waters.” Her right arm shot into the air in defiance of her pain.
Tiara exhaled. Her exclamation brought with it a momentary respite filled with hope.
But that hope was fleeting.
“Right. What the hell do I do now?” Her throat scratched as she spoke. The inside of her mouth had swollen and tasted like seawater. No doubt she had swallowed quite a bit before she washed up on this beach. How that had come to be, she had no idea.
Leaning back against the tree, she looked out over the ocean. In the distance, her once-mighty vessel floundered. Under her command, The Siren’s Song had ruled the seas from Bimini to Brazil. And now, with the bow submerged and on her beam ends, the stern smoldered as smoke billowed into the sea air. Her glorious ship would soon be nothing more than a sunken buoy, headed to the bottom of the sea.
She closed her eyes as her chin dropped to her chest. Regret filled her blackened heart. She considered the many mistakes that had resulted in her present situation. A fog descended on her, and despite her domineering will, she slipped into unconsciousness.
The world blurred at the edges as memories from her past clawed their way to the surface. She remembered how the humid Kingston air pressed against her skin while she slogged through the task of mucking out a stall on the sheep ranch. Shoulder to shoulder with a dozen other native girls, she worked ardently while the others chatted, laughed, and gossiped among themselves. Originally known as Wanda, her thirteen-year-old body ached with the first signs of womanhood.
Detached from the others, young Wanda knew that life would hold more for her than the drudgery of sheep ranching, marriage, and motherhood. She longed for adventure and excitement. She imagined the thrill of salty wind on her face, the taste of freedom, and the rush of adventure.
The constraints of society or social morals would not bind her. One day, she would escape. She had no way of knowing that today would be that day.
Out of nowhere, a ranch hand, terrified and panicked, ran toward them, shouting.
“Get out! Everyone. Run!” His arms waved frantically over his head. “Go for the hills! Pirates!”
Accompanied by screams of terror, the other girls dropped their pitchforks, rakes, and shovels, then scattered like cockroaches in the light.
Not moving, Wanda watched as the panicked young girls ran for their lives. However, unlike the others, danger didn’t frighten Wanda; it enticed her. Instead of running away, she moved toward the threat. Walking boldly to the edge of the clearing, she looked out over the ocean. A ship with three giant masts floated offshore. Down on the beach, she saw her first pirates.
A swarm of men had beached their skiffs and stormed the shore. The pirates forged through the surf, their rifles gleaming, pistols waving, and swords flashing in the harsh sunlight. Worn, blood-red bandanas were knotted around their heads, their faces set with grim determination. Heavy leather boots thundered onto the sand, each step a promise of violence. Thick leather straps crisscrossed their bodies, bristling with buckles and the spoils of past raids.
They descended on her in an instant.
A skinny, sore-ridden pirate grabbed her by the arm and snarled, “I’ve got you, lassie. You’re coming with me.” He dragged her toward the barn. She didn’t understand his sordid intentions, but at the same time, he didn’t scare her. She remembered a tickling excitement.
Once in the barn, the pirate threw her to the ground and laughed. “Ye ain’t scared or shivering, lassie? Could it be you like this, eh?” He unbuckled his belt. Tiara didn’t understand. The pirate dropped his pants, and for the first time, she saw a naked, partially aroused man.
He waddled to her, his pants around his ankles. He grabbed her by her leg and pulled her toward him. As he did, she struck her head on a stall post and let out a yelp. “Arrr, that hurt.” She howled.
He leaned over to her. She could smell the foul odor emanating from his rotting teeth. “I think ye like the hurt. I can see it in your eyes, lass.” With a grin, he slapped her across the face.
The pirate had been wrong. She did not like being hit. Her fist closed, and she punched him full in the face.
Shocked at first, and then angered, the pirate came at her with hatred in his eyes. His anger did nothing but fuel young Wanda’s rage. Rolling to her feet and side-stepping the waddling pirate, she stuck out her foot and tripped him. With his pants around his ankles, he fell flat on his face. Wanda grabbed a pitchfork that one of the fleeing girls had tossed aside and rammed it into his neck, pinning him to the ground.
The pirate tried to cry out, but his voice box had been skewered. Instead of a yell, he gurgled, squirmed, and died.
Wanda looked down at the man without pity or remorse. She did not like being hit, and he should not have done that. She rubbed her reddening cheek.
At that moment, another pirate appeared behind her.
“What in Hades?” he said, bewildered and upset.
Spinning toward the other man, she saw anger on his face.
This pirate, bigger and gruffer than the first, ran to her and, before she had a chance to fight back, threw his arms around her. “Yer off to see the captain and it’s not going to be a good time for ye.”
Back on the beach, the pirate threw her to the sand. Looking to the man in charge, he said, “She killed Willy, ran a pitchfork through his throat.”
Wanda beamed at the man standing over her. He may have been the most imposing person she had ever seen. He stood tall and thick, with a long black beard that almost hit the bottom of his waistcoat. Woven into the beard were jewels and trinkets that flashed as they caught the light. He wore a red velvet jacket, a gold vest, and black knee-high boots. A sword swung by his side, its hilt polished and shining in the sun. A nasty scar ran across his left cheek, and two and a half fingers were missing on his right hand. Still, he looked like he ruled the world.
He is the captain.
Wanda found herself attracted to him in a way she had never known.
“You’re telling me this wisp of a girl killed one of my men?” He barked out.
“Aye, sir. Willie, the coxswain,” the pirate replied in a cowed and subservient voice.
The captain circled the prone Wanda. She couldn’t help but admire his posture, his stature, and the way he owned the very air that surrounded him.
From her fugue state, Tiara re-lived what she had experienced all those years ago: a longing to know this man, to learn from this man, to become this man.
“The Coxswain? Why the hell did you do that, lass?” He growled. “This is a great imposition. He held an important place on our ship.”
Without fear, she looked up at the captain and said, “He slapped me, and I did not like that.”
The captain stared at her for a long moment. He then let out a belly laugh that rattled her rib cage. “Did you hear that, boys? She didn’t like it, so she killed him!” He laughed again. “If you were anyone else, you’d have been run through by now and tossed to the sharks. But damn, lass, I see something in you.” Turning to one of the men, he said, “Put her on the ship.” A sailor stepped forward and grabbed her arm. And then, as an afterthought, the captain said, “But don’t make her mad!” The men all laughed at the joke.
The Gilded Galleon: her first ship. Under Captain Blackheart Bart’s mentorship, Wanda learned the art of piracy. She rose through the ranks with vigor. She learned swordsmanship, practicing for hours on end, until she became the most proficient fighter on board. She learned navigation and seamanship. Her determination and skill earned her the position of quartermaster. Shedding her old name, she embraced her new identity as Tiara Jewel, a pirate at large, feared and respected among the entire crew.
She remembered, years later, sailing off the coast of Jamaica, her former home, on a day meant for fair winds and following seas. Blackheart Bart looked at her and said, “On the starboard side, what do ya see, lassie?”
Tiara whipped her head to the right, and she surveyed the ocean. A brigantine bearing a British ensign sailed in the distance. A bit smaller than the Galeon, the ship appeared to be a transport vessel rather than a military one. A transport often carried gold and other valuables along with affluent passengers. These were always a valued target with an excellent chance for multiple types of booty.
“Bart, they’re coming about. Dropping the mainsail and making a turn to port. They must have seen us and are running with the wind. Can we catch her, do you think?” Tiara yelled with undeniable excitement.
Bart chuckled, “Only one way to find out. She’s a quick ship but no real match for this man-o-war. Take us to her, lassie.”
The colors in this remembrance were vibrant and exaggerated. Tiara’s sense-memory accelerated to the point where the rough, weathered texture of the handrail leading up to the quarterdeck ran across the palm of her hand. She could smell the salt air as the ship came about in the wind.
She shouted commands.
“All hands, hoy. Beat to quarters, men. We have a live one off the starboard side. Bring a spring upon ‘er and let’s get us some booty!”
A cheer went up from the men as they scurried to their posts, turning the ship in the direction of the brigantine. The sails billowed full, moving them toward the fleeing vessel.
Using the aggressive maneuvering techniques that Bart had taught her, it took almost no time to overtake the slower ship. With a cannon shot across their bow, they lowered their sails and surrendered to the Galeon without resistance.
It had been her first hijacking. Tiara, in full command of the raid, led the boarding party. They found bountiful booty, along with much food, fruit, and water. Of course, they had to kill the captain and first mate so as not to be followed—basic pirate routine. Bart had her do the honors on that day. She remembered how easy it had been, forcing them to walk the plank, and just like with weird Willie, she harbored no remorse.
Tiara’s head shivered as she groaned. Conscious of the light against her closed eyes and the steady, cool wind on her face, her body spasmed. The spasm jerked her head up, and her eyes popped open. A lightheaded, fuzzy veil sat on her brain. On the verge of delirium, she struggled to remain focused on her survival. With short, gasping breaths and unmatched willpower, she forced herself to stay awake.
For most of the next minute, she succeeded in that endeavor. But the blood loss, the trauma, and the pain got the better of her, and once again, pulled her back into the darkness.
This time, her mind went to her cabin on the Siren’s Song. Upon taking command of the ship years earlier, she became one of the most feared pirates in the region, enjoying the spoils of her plundering with the utmost bliss: her most pleasing spoil, the dalliance with Jack Hawkson.
There had been many men before him, having been forced at a young age into activities she did not choose, but those days were long gone. No one dared touch her without permission lest they lose a hand. She commanded her domain and commandeered whomever she desired.
At this time, her desire brought her Jack Hawkson. His strong upper body, along with his quick wit, attracted her from their first encounter. A frequent visitor aboard the Siren’s Song, they had enjoyed many passionate times together. In this particular memory, the sensation of post-coital warmth had settled over both their bodies. Their skin stuck together, bonding them as one. Lying in bed, facing each other, enjoying a long, deep embrace, brought about the only sense of joy Tiara ever knew.
Jack was a pirate in his own right, although not as notorious as she. Despite his lack of success, she found him most amusing. As a lover, she’d never found his equal.
Sometime during the conflict with the Victory, she had lost track of Jack. Her heart panged at the thought of losing him.
She willed herself out of her daydream. Her eyes opened wide as a tortured scream escaped her lips.
Oh, just stop it! Don’t be a dungbie. She screamed at herself as she regained consciousness.
“This is not the time, buccaneer. You have more pressing matters.” She mumbled, her lips barely moving. Yet the vividness of the dream hung with her, and a pang of regret filled her heart. If she didn’t think fast, there would be no more Jack Hawkson in her bed.
That would be such a shame.
She heard a shout off to her left. Looking in that direction, a dinghy riding the surf skimmed onto the beach. In the craft were six red-coated soldiers, each carrying a rifle. The two in the front jumped out and pulled the boat securely onto the sand. The others followed. Tiara heard the sergeant yell in a booming, stony voice, “She’s here somewhere. Go find that bilge-sucking whore.”
They broke into pairs and began searching the atoll.
There was no doubt that it was only a matter of time before they found her. No mercy could be expected when they did. She pushed herself deeper into the tangled undergrowth and scanned the leafy shadows for a jagged rock, a shattered branch, anything she could use to defend herself.
She stumbled on a relatively solid branch that had been broken off one of the trees. Not quite thick enough to be called a club, but it would have to do. However, breaking off from the main trunk had left a jagged, pointy edge. It could prove helpful.
Lying still beneath the foliage, she closed her eyes, her breath shallow, her body racked with pain. Yet again, a wave of darkness overtook her, and she passed out beneath the brush.
Another memory descended upon her. This time, not so far into the past.
In the midst of a great battle, the British man-o-war, the HMS Victory, sailed before her. Bigger and faster than the Siren’s Song, the Victory mistakenly betrayed her intentions, but Tiara had missed the clue. She should have known that the attack would come from the port side by the way the Victory close-hauled and beat to windward. But instead of paying attention to the ship chasing them, she ordered her ship into position to counterattack by heaving to and waiting for their first move. That had been her downfall.
After the Victory had tacked starboard, it looked, by the way they were managing her sails, that she would come about on that side. But at the last minute, she tacked left and cut across the Siren’s stern, positioning herself squarely on the port side. Upon gaining that advantage, the Victory had outmaneuvered them and then landed a precise shot against the port side of the hull, just above the waterline. Her stupid mistake had doomed them all.
The gaping hole left in the hull had stopped the Siren dead in the water. As they were founderin’, the Victory plowed side to side into the Siren. Grappling hooks flew over the gunwale, clawing into the deck.
Tiara shouted to her men, “Draw your weapons, matey, and save the Siren. Take no prisoners!”
The sailors on the Victory pulled the two boats together.
The attack began with the Brits, split between the main deck and the quarterdeck of the Victory, firing their rifles down at the panicking pirates. Standard military practice dictated the soldiers' protocol. A row of soldiers would fire, then step back, allowing a second wave of rifles to line up. The first row would then reload. The pirates returned fire, but before they could reload, the second volley rained down on them, killing many of the men. After that second volley, the Brits dropped the gangplanks and invaded the Siren’s deck.
As the first Tommy boarded the ship, the hand-to-hand fighting began. The pirates were outmanned and overwhelmed. Tiara rushed into the fray. She dispatched several British soldiers, being the best swordsman on board, but they had outnumbered her. At some point in the melee, her left hand had been badly slashed, and she had lost two fingers.
Confronted by three soldiers wielding bayonets, Tiara Jewel fought with desperate speed and skill. She slashed and thrust, severing the hand of the nearest attacker, reducing her foes to two. Ducking beneath the second soldier’s thrust, she dragged her cutlass across his stomach, spilling his insides. The final foe, more cautious than the others, waited for her lunge, parried, and countered with an upward slice of his bayonet. The blade tore into her right knee and dragged up to her hip, opening a vicious wound that left her staggering.
The last thing she remembered was standing on the gunwale, swatting and stabbing as fast as she could. She took a stab into her left arm and could no longer hold her balance. The blue, smoke-filled sky above her became her last memory as she fell into the sea.
Amid this dream, a stabbing pain shot through her right leg. It brought her back to consciousness. Looking up through groggy eyes, a red-coated soldier returned her gaze, his bayonet in her face. He yelled at her to wake up and offered several savage kicks to her injured leg as encouragement.
A sardonic smile crossed her lips as she embraced her inevitable death.
“I’m not going down without a fight, you scurvy dog,” she screamed. Using all the strength that she had left in her body, she rolled to her right and thrust the jagged branch toward her attacker. The soldier saw the motion and held his hand out to block it. As fate would have it, the ragged end of the severed branch managed to hit him directly between his index and middle fingers, splitting his hand open along the bones. He screamed in pain and dropped his rifle. Tiara grabbed the weapon, twisted the bayonet off the end, and lunged forward. The tip of the bayonet sliced upward, through the soldier's stomach and into his heart. As his face went white with surprise, he pulled away, grabbing at his gut. Tiara held tight to the bayonet as the screaming soldier slid off the weapon. He fell backward and died on the sand.
His scream, however, had alerted the others. Tiara rolled onto her stomach and, ignoring her intense pain, began to crawl as deep into the brush as she could get; her right leg dragging behind her, the bayonet grasped tightly in her right hand.
Before the other soldiers could arrive, she had managed to disappear deep into the bushes. The shrubs scraped and scratched her already battered body, but the pain went unnoticed, considering the more severe injuries that she carried. From behind her, she heard soldiers yelling.
“McGiven is dead. Somehow that whore got the better of him,” one of them yelled.
“Where on God’s green earth did she go? Spread out, we know she’s close by. And watch your backsides, matey.” The sergeant's distinctive voice made him easy to identify.
Her crawl continued as she put as much space as she could between herself and the enemy. With one last agonizing effort, she entered the clearing at the center of the atoll. Before her lay a beautiful, deep blue lagoon. She had enjoyed these types of waters many times and longed for the cooling refreshment that came with immersion. The memory of her and Jack swimming naked, wrapped around each other, flashed through her mind.
“Not this time. As much as I’d like to. Sorry, old girl.” She mumbled with regret.
Tiara looked up and down the beach, hoping to find a cave or someplace that she might hide. No such respite was to be seen. Crawling out further would only expose her more, so she pushed back under the cover of the foliage.
Tiara curled into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and tried to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible. She knew the truth; barring a miracle, the Brits would find her. The inevitability of her discovery was impossible to deny. Oddly enough, accepting that fact brought with it a sense of calm.
If I have to go out, I guess this is the way to do it. But I’m taking as many of those scum-sucking dogs as I can with me.
The trampling of vegetation on her left told her the soldiers were cutting their way through the brush. She ducked lower to the ground. Without any attempt to hide, they trampled through the brush, yelling to each other as they moved.
“Anything over your way, Willingham? Ya see any signs?” One of them called out.
“Nothing so far. She has to be here, though.” The other replied.
Tiara pulled herself into a tighter ball. Shaking her head, she grimaced. Her only weapon, the bayonet, would be ineffective against multiple attackers.
Behind her, more soldiers were careening through the brush. They would stumble on her in a matter of moments.
For a fleeting second, fear engulfed her. She shivered for the first time in her life. Then, she snorted out disgust. Acknowledging this fear embarrassed her. Looking at herself shivering and curled up into a ball appalled her. This little mass of quivering flesh was not who she was. This wasn’t the terror of the open seas, the ruthless Tiara Jewel. She would not allow them to find her in this state.
With renewed courage, Tiara uncoiled her body, grabbed the bayonet, and crawled toward the lagoon. Breaking into the clearing, she weakly climbed to her feet. Standing as tall as she could, hobbling on one leg, she yelled out in her hoarse, scratchy voice, “I’m over here, you sons of the devil! Come get me if you dare.”
In a panic, the soldiers emerged from the brush.
“I got her. Here she is!” yelled the first redcoat.
As the others broke into the clearing, they all raised their rifles and moved toward her, both from the front and behind.
Tiara stood, wobbling and barely able to stay upright. She held the bayonet in front of her, spinning left and right in an attempt to protect herself from an attack on all sides. She snarled at them with hatred, tottering on her one leg, trying not to fall.
The sergeant stepped toward her first. His movements were strong and confident. She lunged toward him with her weapon, but managed only one step before she fell to the ground.
The sergeant stepped over her and dropped his foot on her right arm, pinning it, along with the bayonet, to the sand.
He pointed his rifle at her head and laughed.
A nasty scowl shot from her face. She kicked her left leg at the man with no result. She then yelled, “You ain’t no hero, you slimy bastard! You’re just the lucky whoreson who gets to kill the mighty Tiara Jewel.”
The burly soldier laughed again and said, “Well, you harlot, you’re dead right about that.”
Without another word, he pulled the trigger, and her face disappeared from her body.
As a result of the capture and execution of Tiara Jewel, the captain of the HMS Victory was awarded the title of knight by Queen Victoria and was gifted a large plot of land, on which he retired with his family. The sergeant who pulled the trigger received a promotion and spent the next thirteen years at sea before dying from scurvy.
But, in the end, Tiara Jewel had the last word.
Legend has it that Tiara Jewel haunts the HMS Victory to this very day. Many sailors have spoken of sightings and the strange things that happened aboard that vessel. The stories are plentiful and frightening.
The lore grew with each odd occurrence. There were dozens of stories of sailors disappearing, falling mysteriously overboard, or developing illnesses that would kill them. While still in service, sailors refused to sleep in certain parts of the Victory, afraid of Tiara Jewel’s lustful vengeance.
The HMS Victory served the British Empire for 247 years before being turned into a museum in Portsmouth. Once decommissioned, tourists often commented on strange sounds, blurry figures floating in the captain’s cabin, and an unexplained chill that would run through them.
Through the years, the legend of Tiara Jewel spread far and wide. Parents used the stories of her evil deeds to scare their children into behaving. Tavern owners hung signs of recognition that the infamous Tiara Jewel had slept, eaten, or drunk at their establishments.
In the annals of history, there were many fierce and horrible pirates, but none were more revered than the indomitable Tiara Jewel.