Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 54: The Chase
Aboard the Sea Wraith, May 1714
For six months the Sea Wraith plunders the merchant ships of France’s enemies. Most of Irene’s share of the prize money has been sent to her family back in England. Enough to satisfy her feeling of duty toward her family.
The Sea Wraith is soon considered to be a lucky ship, although the bracelet’s magic plays its part. However, luck cannot be on the Sea Wraith’s side forever. The warning comes just after sunset.
A lookout’s voice cuts through the cooling air: “Sail astern! A frigate!”
The deck shifts instantly. There’s no panic, just the sharp, collective tightening of a crew that knows the difference between danger and doom. Irene moves to the rail, spyglass raised. I hover close, sensing her pulse quicken.
She sees a dark shape on the horizon partially obscured by the darkening sky. Long hull. Tall masts. Running lights faint in the dusk.
“English frigate,” Irene says quietly. “Thirty‑six guns, at least.”
Rousseau joins her, gaze hard. “They’ve been hunting us since Havana. They’ve finally chanced upon us.”
The Sea Wraith is fast ... one of the fastest privateers in the Caribbean ... but a frigate in open water is faster still. The English ship holds the wind perfectly, closing the distance with steady, predatory confidence.
Rousseau calls out, “Full sail! Keep the wind behind us!”
The crew spring into motion. Canvas unfurled. Lines tightened. The Sea Wraith surges forward, but the frigate is faster.
Irene lowers her spyglass. “We can’t outrun them.”
“No,” Rousseau says. “So we must out‑think them.”
He looks to her with an unspoken trust. Irene swallows, then turns to the chart table near the helm. The lantern light flickers across the parchment as she traces the coastline with her finger.
“Jeannia,” she whispers, “help me.”
I close my eyes, sensing the currents, the shape of the sea, the hidden dangers beneath the surface. Most of the reefs are shown on Irene’s chart ... but not all. Few ships venture into those waters ... and only in daylight.
“There are reefs to the north‑east,” I say. “A labyrinth. Dangerous. But passable.”
Irene nods. “If we reach them before full dark, we can lose the frigate.”
Rousseau listens and without hesitation gives his order. “Plot it.”
Irene works quickly, marking a narrow course through waters most captains avoid entirely. Sharp turns. Shoals. Knife‑edge channels. The kind of navigation that demands absolute precision. Hard enough in daylight, and surely impossible in darkness.
The Sea Wraith adjusts her heading. The frigate follows, still closing as the night deepens. Stars emerge. The wind shifts slightly ... just enough to favour the brig’s lighter hull. Irene feels it, and adjusts the course by a hair’s breadth.
The first reef rises ahead, black shapes breaking the surface. The crew murmurs prayers. Rousseau’s jaw tightens.
Irene stands at the bow, calling corrections. “Two degrees starboard! Hold! Shallows ahead ... keep her steady!”
The Sea Wraith slips between jagged rocks, missing disaster by yards. At first the frigate tries to follow ... but then it hesitates. The English captain knows the danger. One wrong turn will tear his hull apart. The English admiralty show no mercy to a captain whose recklessness sinks his ship.
I feel the moment the frigate falters. “They’re slowing.”
“Yes,” replies Irene. “They fear the reefs in the dark.”
The Sea Wraith plunges deeper into the reef maze, her crew silent, trusting Irene’s voice more than the stars. The frigate’s lanterns grow smaller behind them, then vanish entirely.
When the brig finally clears the last shoal and the sea opens wide and empty, there’s no sign of pursuit. No lights. Only the wind and the dark.
The crew exhale as one.
Someone whispers, “Blessed.”
Another echoes it. “Blessed navigator.”
Irene freezes, startled. Rousseau looks at her with a rare softness. “You saved us.”
She shakes her head. “Jeannia guided me.”
But the crew doesn’t hear that part. They only see Irene, steady, brilliant, unerring in the dark.
“Blessed,” they repeat, louder this time.
Irene touches the bracelet, uncertain. I feel her heartbeat. Her fear, pride, and something deeper: the weight of being seen.
The Sea Wraith sails on into the night, safe for now, carried by a wind that feels almost grateful.
During the early hours of the morning, the wind drops and Sea Wraith slows. The crew rest in small clusters, sharing food, talking in soft voices and quiet laughter born of relief. The English frigate has gone, swallowed by distance and darkness.
Irene sits alone near the bow, legs drawn up, the bracelet faintly warm against her skin. The sea is like black glass beneath her, the stars sharp above. I settle beside her, shaping myself into a gentle outline. She doesn’t startle; she has grown used to my presence.
“You saved them,” I say.
She shakes her head. “We saved them.”
Her voice is soft, thoughtful. The adrenaline of the chase has faded, leaving something quieter behind ... reflection, uncertainty, and a fragile pride.
For a long moment she watches the water. Then she speaks.
“Jeannia ... tell me about the others. The ones who wore the bracelet before me.”
I feel a familiar ache. Memory rising like a tide. I have talked to Irene of Awa before, but we haven’t spoken of the others. I sometimes speculate about their lives after they parted company with the bracelet. Lucia and Awa retained the bracelet until their deaths, but to the others, the Maristela Bracelet was only an interlude in their life. I like to think their lives benefited as a result, but using magic doesn’t guarantee a better life.
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