'The Pirate's Lair'

Wolf Island is the biggest land mass in the 1000 Island chain. Situated were the hundred mile long freshwater inland sea that is Lake Ontario ends and the majestic St. Lawrence River begins, Wolfe Island stands like a rocky, pine covered mountain leaning into the Westerly winds that blow unimpeded from far distant Niagara Falls to strike the 'Big Island's' blasted, granite shores.

Before the Pandemic there was a ferry service from Kingston, Ontario to Wolfe on the northern side of the island and a second one from Wolf to the small town of Cape Vincent on the southern US shore.

Needless to say, neither ferry was in operation any more.

Like the Everson family on Grindstone, the Grant Family had first settled on the 'Big Island' almost two hundred years earlier. However both the islands and the families had developed differently. Grindstone, sheltered from Ontario's scouring winds, had good soil; tall, straight, mixed forests and had eventually become a prosperous farming community. Battered and bruised Wolfe Island however had poor, acidic soil; bent, twisted trees and existed on fishing, boat building and smuggling.

For over a half dozen generations the Grant family had been thieves, smugglers and 'pirates' to a man! In 'modern times' they had kept a somewhat lower profile to be sure, what with computers, surveillance cameras and a very fast and efficient coast guard --- but since the Pandemic, many if not all of the Family Grant had reverted to their rougher, ancestral ways. And now with the sudden passing of the clan leader, old Randolph Grant, control of the clan, and the 'Granite Throne' fell to the oldest surviving son, Roger Lanagan Grant --- who had very different ideas as to how the family smuggling business should be run.

***

Even as a young boy Roger had always been a troubled soul. His family's name, money and prestige had always made him something close to 'royalty' among the close-knit Wolfe Island folk. A 'prince among lesser men' --- though at times a dark and moody one.

School was a challenge, his adolescence even more so. Concerns were noted; complaints were laid and medical tests were demanded. The results, though contradictory, confirmed what many already believed --- young Roger Grant, only son of Randolph Grant, the C.E.O. of Grant Import & Export Ltd. and hereditary 'clan leader' of the clandestine but very prosperous Wolf Island's smuggling fleet --- was a deeply troubled lad.

***

"Your problem, son, is that you've got too quick a temper and too little respect for authority," a judge in a Kingston court had said to the frowning eighteen year old youth standing defiantly before him. "The list of infractions against you is both long and grievous, and if you're found guilty of only half of them it will mean at least several years in prison." The grey haired old man had then taken off his glasses and leaned forward from his high bench. "Are you deliberately trying to ruin your life, son?"

When the only answer forthcoming was sullen silence, the judge had actually smiled. "Defiant till the bitter end, eh my boy? Just you alone against the big bad world. Well son, since you recently turned eighteen I'm going to give you a little present of sorts. It's called 'free advice'. Now I fully expect you to ignore it, but you'd be very wise not."

Roger Grant remained silent, a bored look on his frowning face. His lawyer however, a young Public Defender, was eager to hear the judge's 'advice'.

"The way I see it, son," the old judge continued quietly; "you have three choices. You can plead 'guilty' and throw yourself on the mercy of this court --- something we both know that you will not do. You can plead 'not guilty' and take your chances about being convicted for anywhere between five to fifteen years --- which we both know that you will be. Or you can take what I like to call the 'military option'."

After a pause the young Public Defender asked the judge to clarify the last choice. The judge's answer was brief. "A minimum of two years as an active infantry soldier in the Her Majesty's Canadian Army."

For the first time Roger Grant actually smiled. "And you want me to choose one of those three options?"

"I do indeed, son."

Roger's smile turned into a sneer. "What's in it for you? You get some kind of 'kick-back' out of this?"

"What I 'get out of it', son, is satisfaction."

"You get off on 'playing God', is that it?"

"Your Honour," the PD suddenly put in. "My client didn't mean to offend you. I'm sure he ---"

"No offence taken, councillor. I've been accused of worst things in my time." The judge then turned his fatherly stare on Roger. "Over the years countless young men just like you have stood before me. Most did not get this choice. Many that did chose the wrong one. I'm betting that you are smarter than they were."

"So it's a game with you then?" Roger asked.

"Life's a game, son. A dangerous game with hard rules and dire consequences. And also 'time limits' --- and your time, son, is up. So, what's it going to be? Guilty? Not guilty? Or the Army?"

"Can I join the navy?" Roger asked.

"No you cannot!" the judge replied firmly. "I'm friends with a major who recruits for the Queen's Own Rangers, one of the toughest outfits in the Canadian Armed Forces. Perhaps after a year you can transfer to the navy, perhaps not. Now, which one is it going to be?!"

Roger drew a deep breath and raised his chin. "After two years I can quit and walk away?"

"Son, that will be clearly stated in your contract."

After a moment's hesitation, Roger nodded agreement.

"For the record, son, I have to hear you say it."

"I choose the bloody army!"

"Good!" the judge beamed, finalizing the transaction by banging his gavel. "Bailiff, kindly escort soon-to-be Private Grant here next door to Major Tardavel's recruiting office. Tell him it's the regular two year contract --- and stay with Private Grant till he signs his name." The judge then turned back to Roger. "I thought you'd make the right choice, lad, and you did." The judge then leaned forward and held out his hand. Hesitantly Roger reached out and shook it. The older man held on a moment longer. "The Rangers will make a man out of you, son --- one way or the other. Now go --- and do us both proud!"

And so eighteen year old Roger Grant joined The Queen's Own Rangers --- and ended up staying with them for nearly fifteen years.

Boot Camp was rougher than anything young Roger had ever done, but he learned to bear down, live with the pain and stay the course. He found in himself a solid bottom that he had no idea even existed. Over time his anger became determination and his impulsiveness was replaced with quiet deliberation. He actually thought now instead of simply reacting, giving him a new, more solid rudder by which to steer his life's course. Fierce and violent he still could be when needed, but his years in the Rangers had taught him to control his emotions instead of letting them control him.

In short, the old judge had been right --- 'The Queen's Own' had made a man out of him.

Fifteen years after leaving that Kingston courtroom and well over a dozen overseas deployments later, word came from Wolfe Island that Roger's father Randolph had cancer and needed a very serious operation. Thirty-three year old Sergeant Roger Grant asked for and received permission for an 'extended leave of absence' to go back home. Roger ran the 'family business' while his father slowly recovered his strength. He'd been home six months when Covid-19 swept around the world and the Pandemic settled in to do its best to destroy human life on the planet.

***

On the same morning that Sam was sailing the White Witch back to Mohawk to gather help to deal with the so-called 'pirates', Roger Grant was making his plans for the June patrol through the islands to collect his various payments and to continue to persuade other river communities to join his fight against the dangerous, hungry mobs flooding the Isles area from both sides of the St. Lawrence.

Grant's biggest concern however was one group run by a former business partner of his fathers, an aging psycho biker type that called himself St. Nick but was better known as 'Bad Santa'. He and his large following had taken over the small village of Haven on Howe Island and had spread out into the many deserted farms left there by the Pandemic.

"But what about Cape Vincent?" Catherine Curotte demanded of the new Lord of Wolfe Island. "All the islanders can give us is food, but the mainlanders have all kinds of things that we need! Also, just because 'The Cape' refused your offer the last time doesn't mean things haven't changed since then. I've heard there's been more food riots in Sacket's Harbour and another mob of 'crazies' have come north from Watertown. The bloody fools believe that story going round about the 'Isles being a place of sanctuary and free food'! Also Bad Santa and his psycho weirdoes over on Howe have also been causing trouble as well!"

'Cat', even though she was a woman, was Roger's 'right hand man'. Her family, the Curottes, had been on Wolfe Island even longer than the Grants. Back in the late 1600's, the Governor of New France ,Count Frontenac, gave one of his trusted lieutenants, Joseph Etienne Curotte, the 3rd Baron de Longueil, ownership of 'Le Grand Isle' --- later, named Wolfe Island after the British general who defeated New France at Quebec City in 1757. The Curottes, like the Grants, had considered themselves to be 'island royalty' ever since.

Unlike most 'islanders', Catherine Curotte --- called 'The Baroness' by friends and foes alike --- had wanted to see more of the world than her own small, windswept, rocky island and the same few faces she had been looking at all her young life. Tall, good looking, outgoing and fearless, at eighteen she went off to study 'art' at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario. At Christmas Break she left on a motorcycle for Florida with a boyfriend --- and just kept right on going! Neither friends nor family heard from her for years and, as time passed those few that did remember her thought that she had probably 'come to a bad end'.

And in a way they were right, for when she finally did return to Wolfe Island eight years later --- three years before the Pandemic --- the naive, eighteen year old girl that had left to see the world was long gone.

Tough, tattooed and unwilling to take shit from anyone, 'The Baroness' now carried herself with a dangerous self-assuredness that made her stand out like a bird of prey amongst a field of scavenging crows. As a type of 'royalty' herself, she and the 'Smuggling Prince of Wolf Island', Roger Grant, were naturally drawn to each other. They soon became casual lovers and more importantly, very serious business partners.

Due to his father's poor health and advancing age, Roger had been handling more and more of the family business. With the coming of the Pandemic six months after his return, Roger used the organizational skills he learned in the Rangers to change the business from simply pandering to the darker desires of people --- smuggling tobacco, booze and guns as his father had --- to actually trying to supply people with what they needed rather than what they simply wanted. Things for survival soon became much more important than things merely for pleasure. Tools, clothing and food were needed more than tobacco or booze.

Guns continued to be in high demand, but not merely for 'crime, sport or collecting' --- but now for protection. Covid-19 had killed off well over half the world's population, but mankind's fear, prejudices and outright stupidity had almost wiped out the rest. Those the virus didn't kill, food riots, wars, diseases, cold weather starvation and stupidity nearly did.

The sad truth is that 'mankind' in general is not a very 'nice guy'. Oh, in times of 'plenty' many of us do 'share a little' with those less fortunate than ourselves. A few dollars donated to the cancer fund each year or some 'spare change' dropped in a 'save the whales/seals/puppies' jar at the office --- and not all of us do even that --- and certainly not too often if we do!

'After all', we rationalized to ourselves; 'I can't give to every charity or my own children will go without! Plus I'm saving for that new Smart Phone/ flat screen'/fill-in-the-blank/ that just came out!'

Now, add personal hunger, fear and danger to that already rather selfish 'rationalization' and you'll see why guns were the main way that the survivors 'protected' themselves from 'other' hungry, frightened and dangerous survivors that would most certainly take what they needed if they could!

"Cape Vincent will be our first stop," Roger told The Baroness. "The City Council voted against my offer of protection last month, but that young guy Mike something-or-other said he'd work on them. He told me that he'd been to Watertown and seen the hungry mobs there and he didn't want them turning up in his town."

Catherine, the Baroness of Curotte, looked at her sometimes lover and full time business partner and frowned. An AR-15 hanging from a military sling down the front of her black tank top, 'Cat' was quite a fetching sight.

A long swath of her raven black hair covered her right eye and cheek, but did nothing to mar her breathtaking beauty. The inky blue-black swirls that covered her left arm from shoulder to wrist gave her a mysterious, even dangerous allure --- but it was the look in her eye and the tone of her voice that drew the 'island prince's' attention.

"Most of our men, Roger, are tired of getting paid in sacks of corn, salted fish and scrawny chickens! Even when we can give them a few coins, there's nowhere to bloody well spend it other than on drink and the whores down at the 'Widow's Tavern'! If we're going to keep this business of ours growing we need to get more than just chickens, pigs and groceries!"

Roger Grant looked up from the nautical map he had been studying and smiled at the beautiful, dangerous creature standing before him. "Everyone knows that if they want to eat, they do what their told. You, me, everyone. Hunger is like a shadow, Cat. It follows us around wherever we go."

The Baroness tilted her pretty head. "Very profound, Prince Roger. Should I write that down, or will you have it carved over the door?"

Grant actually laughed at that. He liked many things about Catherine Curotte, and her dry sense of humour was near the top of the list. "There's no need, Cat. We'll all say it at dinner instead of grace --- just before we eat our salted fish and scrawny chicken."

The Baroness smiled and shook her head. "You can be a real asshole at times, you know that?"

"So I've been told. Now, what else do we need besides 'groceries'?"

Her list came quickly."New trucks, vans and faster, bigger boats. We also need new generators, tanks of gas and propane, new battery driven tools and most of us, you included, could use some new clothes! You've been wearing those raggedy jeans and that ripped coat all winter."

The 'Wolfe Prince' smiled and traced a finger southward across the map, coming to rest on the American shore. "Then we're off to do a little shopping at Cape Vincent. We'll see what we can find besides sacks of corn at the Price Chopper. But after that it's on to Grindstone. John Everston's group should have June's payment ready and waiting for us."

***

The next day when Sam Burnham was docking the White Witch at the town wharf in Mohawk, Roger Grant was leading his fleet of four larger ships in behind the long, cement breakwater in front of the once bustling little tourist town of Cape Vincent. Each large sailboat carried twenty-five well armed men and was towing behind it a smaller boat equipped with a powerful outboard motor.

In Year Four A.P. --- After the Pandemic --- gasoline was becoming harder and harder to find and more expensive when you did, so most people in the Isles, including the 'Pirates of Wolf Island', used the wind whenever they could. The much smaller but faster motor boats they towed behind were only used for tenders, emergencies or 'counter attacks' on any 'invading mobs of crazies.'

In his ship, 'The Queen's Own', Roger led his fleet of four sailing ships past the breakwater of the once bustling little tourist town. Only his ship and the 'Raven', a two masted sloop, actually tied up at the wharf. The other two ships took up stations sailing around the long, cement breakwater, always with one ship inside the breakwater with its gunners watching for any trouble ashore. The four smaller powerboats were now darting around the larger ships like noisy, little sparrows after a larger bird, each one crammed with hard eyed men with automatic weapons.

One of the many things Roger Grant had learned in his years with the Rangers was that force itself was rarely needed. Often just the 'appearance of force', along with the obvious 'willingness to use it' if needed, produced the desired results. Of course there was always the odd 'exception that proves the rule', and then force, swift and terrible, was needed ---but the Prince of Wolfe Island didn't believe that this was going to be one of those times.

As the 'Queen's Own' came alongside the wharf, crewmembers jumped out fore and aft with thin ropes and moved quickly to the large metal stanchions bolted into the thick dock beams. The thin ropes were swiftly pulled ashore, dragging thicker, heavier mooring cables that were expertly snugged to the wharf. The same thing was taking place on the Raven further down the dock.

Roger, along with The Baroness and several armed crewmen came off next and walked up to a pair of nervous looking older men. One was the mayor and the other was from the St. Vincent Town Council.

"Good morning Mister Mayor," Roger said smiling but not offering his hand. "I told you last month that I'd be back to see you. I hope you've had time to reconsider my last offer."

Before the mayor could answer, a man that had been standing behind the mayor suddenly stepped forward.

Roger thought him a rather strange looking individual. Tall, thin as a rake, with what looked like either freckles or some kind of skin condition over most of his oddly elongated face. But it was the wild, rather mad look in his eyes that drew Roger's attention ---- that and the large pistol he held in his hand.

"You do your talking to me now, sailor-boy!" the freckled faced scarecrow said louder than he needed to. "Me and my boys are running things here now, not these old farts!" As he spoke four more armed men moved up behind him.

"And just who might you be?" Roger asked pleasantly.

Scarecrow suddenly took a step closer and pointed the large pistol directly at Roger's chest. "I'm the mean motherfucker that's gunna blow you away, sailor-boy, if you don't wipe that fucking smile off your face!"

Roger's smile actually widened as he slowly turned to the beautiful, tattooed woman beside him. "Baroness, Code Three if you please."

Catherine Curotte smiled back and slowly raised her left hand. Three fingers were clearly seen extending upwards.

"What the fuck is 'code three'?! the thin man demanded.

Roger explained. "My men and I sail to many different places and received various types of greetings. Code One means all friendly, normal safety measures only. Code Two is when people aren't too happy to see us and a show of force is needed."

"Ya?! Well what the fuck is code three?!" Scarecrow's freckled face broke into an ugly sneer as he pressed the gun's long barrel against Roger's chest. "Danger! Danger! Let's get the fuck outa here?!"

"Something like that," Roger said. His words were followed by a sudden flurry of hand movements and then the man's gun went off. Scarecrow was punched backwards into his surprised followers --- shot with his own gun that Roger had just taken off him. Roger then shot two of the four followers before they could even raise their own weapons.

Other shots also rang out --- from the Baroness and the armed crewmembers. As the echoes died away and the frightened crowd looked nervously around, several other armed men further back were already running away. The Baroness nodded in their direction and crew from both the 'Queen's Own' and the 'Raven' went after them.

The mayor, trembling and as white as a sheet, looked wide-eyed at Roger. "I --- I just have to ask."

"Certainly, sir. Go right ahead."

"What does Code Three mean?"

Roger smiled. "The skinny fellow there got the 'danger' part right."

"And, ah, the rest?" the mayor cautiously asked.

"Kill anyone with a gun." Roger then opened the revolver's cylinder, emptied the rounds onto the owner's dead body, napped it shut and handed the gun butt first to the older man. "Here you go, Mister Mayor --- something to remember today by. Now, how about we discuss our new partnership?"

***