The Isle of St. Simmins

As told by Captain Finn Jones - Chapter One

Not long ago, aye, I believe to have been at the Port of St. John on the Isle of St. Simmins. Thar were a lady of a fine hew and skin of alabaster; tresses of raven-black, with gull's eyes of gray set deep within her temples. Her beauty could stoop even the stoutest backs of every sailor that moored at St. John. But the lass had her darkness... she was the child of one rich Colonel John O'Shea, and spoiled beyond her own capacity.

Her mother, Bess, died a-givin birth, ya see, leaving the Colonel a widower. So the Colonel was a hard man, beaten and calloused by years ordering men to their deaths and a full twenty times near his own; a bullet stuck below his heart was testament to that. The death of his wife made him the harder. In the affairs of money he was shrewd and of modest means, a man with the touch of Midas. But he was given to the ale.

And then he was a slave to gambling, rum running, and women o'vice; So it was that the Colonel left his only darlin' to raise by the household servants, who loved the girl only as long as the Colonel kept the ale barrels full and the pay healthy. How the daughter longed for company; the Colonel traded her affection for the trinkets that she had long since stopped wearing about her neck.

No man of the island would dare call upon her. To love the daughter was to feel the cold eyes of that hard man. A thousand men or more had died o' his watch; what was a passing sailor to him? Yet still she yearned...

O'Shea Manor towered above the wharf of St. John, so high that one could not see the scuttle of ships and men at the wharf, but looked beyond to the harbor and its gray-blue water. The daughter's bedchambers rose two stories above, and on a clear day the whole of the harbor was visible from the parapet.

When night would fall, as the sea flashes with moonlight, and the trade winds blow softly across Rachel's shawl, she would close it to her breast, and sigh. Across the sea, she knew, was a life not kept. There she was free- Aye, free to love and laugh and drink.

And she stood on that parapet, one summer evening, with a spyglass in hand looking about the red horizon. Then into view, it came, knifing the waves with a dark keel that seemed to rise out of the sea. She watched for an hour as the ship sailed into the harbor, moored, and its crew scattered.

As told by Hildy, the maidservant. - Chapter Two

"Time for your supper," I called.

Rachel closed the door to the parapet, passed the long corridor, and slinked down the stairs which led to the parlor. Elegant tapestries from the old country lined the parlor wall above the mahogany sofas and hand-hewn chairs which compassed the fireplace. Betwixt them lay a blue and burnt rug, bought in Indy. Beyond was the dining room.

Rachel sat and glowered at the victuals before her.

"Your father is attending to some business at the wharf," I said, and shook my head. He was at the tavern, and I am certain that she knew.

The daughter pushed her food from one side of the plate to the other for an hour.

"Eat something, Miss," I pleaded, "You'll catch your death of this."

Without a word Rachel snatched an orange from the bowl, and sank her fingernails deep into its rind.

As told by Captain Finn Jones - Chapter Three

'Twas a swaggering fellow that walked into the Ye Olde SimFreak; had a broad three-corner hat with the Jolly Roger roughly embroidered on a fold; had he a red great-coat and heavy leather on his boots. He was dressed in finery, and his hair was freshly combed. He smelled queerly like he had returned from a French fancy house, and had not washed the perfume o' his face; he wasted no time in biding the Colonel's eye.

The tavern looked more like a Church; windows of stained glass, dark benches for the mourners and sinners. Only when they come to this house, thar was ne'er a prayer to be heard.

The old man with the monocle eye was playing at gin... a rum-soaked Barbados wench name of Judit hung at his arm... the man in the red coat found him

"Are you Colonel O'Shea?" the seadog asked, stroking his beard.

" That I am." The Colonel never looked up from his hand.

"I'm called Pete. I have your shipment. Six hundred bottles of Jamaican... the best cane in the isles."

The Colonel looked up. "I prefer to handle my business in private. Lots of eyes, lots of ears..."

"Here now, Colonel, you own this island. You know all those eyes and ears... and you can plug them at your will. I have a crew of ten. Can you lodge us; maybe provide some com

"You have a price in mind...?"

"Get to know me first, Colonel... we can talk price after we're chummed."

The Colonel smiled ... and bit the wench on the cheek a bit.

"My Dear, I have more money than I know what to do with," he spake to her. " Across the wharf is a bathhouse, with some to attend. You should be bedded there, Captain. A lot of female company for you..."

The seadog agreed with a nod, and took to the bar.

"Barkeep?"

Old Willie, the barkeep, never smiled on his patrons.

"Barkeep… send a maid to that table. I have a dyin' man's thirst…" the seadog said.

O'er the corner, where the lantern light fades, sat two figgurs with shabby cloaks. The dark one was François L'Overture, a Haitian maroon that had spent his early years in service of the Spanish Platt. The other was Johannes Houtenpoot (woodenleg), a Dutchman by way of Tortuga. They were parceling a fine spirit and waiting for the Captain. They sat a little straighter in their chairs when he came.

"You spake wit de colonel?" the Haitian asked him.

"We spoke- I spoke," Pete said.

"And?"

"He's as hard a lubber as ever I saw," Pete said, and lit his pipe.

"Ya got the Colonel, Petey boy? He agrees to the shipment? " asked the peg-leg, with a laugh and a snort. The Dutchman had the look of several months at sea, and the smell of it. His voice was gruff.

"Keep it down, Peg-leg."

By and by the barmaid came, and flourished her black, perfumed hair across the table. She spilled some ale on the wooden leg.

"And you are who, pretty?" the Captain asked, grabbing her wrist and twisting it a little.

"Lucinda…" and she turned her head away.

"Lucinda, I would like to break a bottle of whiskey. Two more ales for my hearties."

"We have Scotch."

"That'll do…" he said. "I have always despised the spirit Rum. That's why they call me 'Whiskey Pete.' Do you like whiskey?"

"No," she said with a lamb's face.

"Pity. I would break a bottle with you," and he loosed her wrist. They watched her leave.

"Aye, that be a fine frau;" said the peg-leg, and his eyes grew wide. "So when will this happen?"

"He thinks there are ten of us, Peg-leg. We make delivery tomorrow, and it will look like we leave shore on the same at sundown."

"And then we hit?"

"We hit only on my mark. Tomorrow evening; I'm not sure of the time."

"De Col-u-nel?" the Haitian leaned over the table, "You know what kind of man he be?"

And a shark's grin crossed the mouth o'Pete… "He's a hard man… I'm counting on it."

As told by Hildy, the maidservant. - Chapter Four

The night was warm, but Rachel had a cold nature. She tightened the scarf on her neck, and stole out of the house.

The wharf was busy and conversational this evening, smelling of smoky chum. A full eight ships had docked this night, the most she could remember. A storm would come on the morrow. Several mariners were on their own decks, swabbing and hoisting and the like. The whole wharf glowed of orange, as the lanterns had already been lit for the night. In the distance could be heard the sweet strains of a squeezebox.

Rachel walked in a rhythm to the hollow sounds of her feet on the plank boards. Five men called to her from the wharf; they had pipes fully lit, and spoke in languages she did not understand. From the same mouths she heard phrases she knew to be French, and some words she perceived to be Dutch, but understood nothing. She knew they were speaking unmentionable things about her. She felt their eyes, and turned away, but smiled all the while. Ahead was the place her father had always told her to avoid.

St. John was not much of a station; the crews would stop only to shore the riggings before a storm, to take a pint in the tavern, or to visit the bathhouse.

The bathhouse- the bathhouse was the most infamous establishment on St. Simmons. Not very large, it was well known that the bath maids were of loose character and healthy complexions. They were stout and lovely, and kind to every sailor who passed for a bath, and kinder if he had some plunder to share.

She heard raucous laughter from the inside of the building, and the sensations within her breast discharged in her feet, so she slinked to the back.

Four buccaneers were bathing. On the floor were scattered jewels of moderate value, and the maids were costuming them on their wrists and wore them as necklaces, fondling them and pleading with the men to keep them. "We are fine women," they would say, laughing to each other, "and we have rich husbands." The pirates would only grin and ask for a kiss on the cheek; they promised them more jewels later. The girls smiled, poured the hot water, and washed the dirty backs.

Rachel admired them. Here was she, creeping from the house, away from her father's eyes, and absent from his knowledge. He would have flogged her had he known where she was; at least, he would have imprisoned her in her room again.

Of the pirates within and without the house, the one in blue, seemed absent from the lust. He sat quietly outside, scaling fish. One of the pirates stood in his bath, and threw a sponge at him through the open window. She heard them call him "Silky."

"Ho, Silky… take a bath. I'll be clean shortly," the sponge-hurler shouted.

"You finish your bath…" Silky called back, "and I'll have them draw some clean water for me. I don't want to bathe in mud."

Rachel noted the parrot, Old Paul, in the corner. He was quieter tonight, but years of training in buccaneer conversation had given him such a vocabulary as to shame the sailors. Old Paul was probably the oldest living thing on the island… next to her father.

As she straightened her body, something spun her 'round.

"You're looking for something, Lass?" The voice was deep.

"I-I, I lost something."

"Aye, and I've found something," said the man in the red greatcoat. Even in the dark, she could see the wildness in his eyes.

"I need to leave. There's been a mistake."

He grabbed her arm near the shoulder. "You look fine to me, in the moonlight. Fine indeed. Are you a maid in the bath?" Rachel swallowed hard, and her lip quivered.

For a moment, she almost said yes. "I am the daughter of a hard man," she said.

"They call me Pete. I am a hard man."

As told by Captain Finn Jones - Chapter Five

Johannes Houtenpoot could only walk a few steps in the darkness before pulling his stump out of the mire. "Curse ye, Island Fool," said he quiet-like. Poppycock, the parrot o' his shoulder, snapped at his head. "Silky is better suited for this slinking around business," he complained, under his breath, swatting at the bird.

François the Haitian was his company. The sky was at its full darkness now, and the wharf had gone mostly quiet. A few voices still playing cards could they hear, and a hearty laugh on occasion. They hid themselves in the shadows.

"You would think Pete would have the mind to skulk the place about before casting some plan to take the Colonel's map. He have a retainer or two or five about the mansion yard. He doesn't trust his rum-runners."

"And we give de Col'nel reason to not trust," sayed François.

"Aye," grinned the Dutchman. "Aye."

They marked the grounds of the mansion well; the Colonel had his hires about, and they nearly made themselves known to the Colonel's men on two occasions. The colonel's retainers were nothing more than they themselves had been. They were buccaneers, but not in their season. The men under his hire were pirates, not runners, and usually hit the Spanish Platt fleet in the late spring. They wintered in Jamaica, and came to St. Simmons at the time that the cane harvest ended- rum season. The colonel was well known to have at a time five to ten ships that he employed to run, and at least ten men to protect him from the runners themselves. It was a quagmire of a business, yet the Colonel never lacked for money.

And then they saw the crocs. Chained like dogs, they were, around the back o' the tavern, by a watering hole. François had no love of crocs.

"Step on 'is heed," said he to the Peg-leg.

Ol' Houtenpoot thought for a while. Its mouth was muzzled; everyman knows that the strength of a croc lies not in the opening of his mouth, but in the closing. He had once told a man that he lost his leg to a croc… but twasn't true. In truth, he had been careless with some black powder.

"The ole bag suffers enough," said he, bending over the poor creature. "Not right to do that to God's own."

No sooner had these words crossed his lips, then the croc thrashed suddenly with a violence, and the bird fluttered in Peg-leg's face, and he fell backward on his arse, in the muck. The Haitian had good sport o' this.

So it stands that Johannes Peg-leg pushed François away and snarled, then took the heel of his stump and buried it as far as it would go right between the croc's eyes.

"Leave us go. You get the rest of the crew into ship. They're likely whoring in the bathhouse. Pete'll be needin' to know this." He looked back at the beast he had smashed, and spat.

"C'mon Poppy. Damnable bag!"

As told by Hildy, the maidservant. - Chapter Six

She shuddered awake in the darkness. Her senses were overwhelmed, her arms tied. She struggled for a moment, there in the blackness, and stopped… for a while.

Certain smells were always very distinctive to her. It was musty, and salty, and there was a faint hint of ether in the air. Ether. She smelled it on her shoulder and clothes. She knew it had been used upon her. With that knowledge, it seemed she recovered herself entirely.

After a while, her eyes adjusted. The mirror over her head reflected a little light from the ceiling overhead. At first she took a fright; in front of her was the most hideous thing she had ever seen - a candle within a man's skull. No matter what she saw in that room, she could not take her mind off of that skull. She tried to imagine who had worn it at one time; was it made of wax? But she knew she was her father's daughter when she decided that she was not afraid.

There were several barrels clustered in one corner. She could not see beyond that. To her right, on the floor, were smooth bars of what must have been gold, as the light caught it on occasion. A sudden rocking of the room and the sound of wind chimes told her that she was not in a house, but indeed in the hold of a ship.

And then it came to her: the fellow outside of the bathhouse. She struggled a bit, but then stopped struggling. Had he taken her? No. She would have known that then, and even now. He gave her a whiff of the ether, and carried her to this place. And she prayed, under her breath, that this had been the extent of it.

She pulled on the ropes, but sailors knew their knots. She could not escape. She proceeded to launch herself from the chair, and then fell hard on the dirty floor. She hit her nose on a gold bar, and tasted something like sawdust in her mouth.

The light from the ceiling darkened suddenly, and the rat-a-tat-tat of feet across the planks above told her someone was coming. She quickly contorted her body and after much effort wriggled into the chair. The door of the hold opened quietly, and someone came down the steps. They walked rather lightly.

Rachel swallowed hard. "What does your Captain want with me?"

"Miss-miss, are you alone?" The voice was small and quiet. "I am - over here."

"I am Hans. The Captain's boy- His cabin boy."

"Miss, I don't know. I only know what I am told." "And what has he told you?"

"Nothing, Miss. They- they seemed interested in a map."

"But what do they want with me?"

By this time she could feel the boys breath on her back. She still could not see very well. He whispered in her ear.

"I don't know, but you have to leave here."

"Am I in danger?"

"Please… I'm going to untie you now. You must tell no one what I've done here."

"You're a kind boy," she said, a wry smile crossing her lips that he could not see. "Will you- will you be in trouble?"

"I'm not a boy. I've seen enough to make me a man."

"Of course you are." she paused while he finished the ropes. "Can you get me to safety?"

"The two men on deck… they are drunk and asleep. The others are in port. I can get you to the deck. Where you go from there is your decision."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, now looking directly into the boy's eyes.

"I saw him bring you here… all limp. Your dress hung off of your legs, and you appeared to me to be an angel. My Captain is a fierce man, without a heart. I love you, I am sure. That's why I have to let you go."

Rachel grabbed his arm and kissed him quickly on the forehead.

As told by Captain Finn Jones - Chapter Seven

Inigo Castillo had worked for the Viceroy for many years. He fought in Panama, and against the savages in New Spain. It was told that he had a wife at each port in the Caribbean, two of them of full native blood. When it was said that the Spanish no longer needed the services of privateers, he gave full allegiance to his purse and worked for the English Crown, looting the Spanish Platte each spring as it passed the coast of Florida. Aye, but it were in Jamaica that he met the strong-willed Irishman John O' Shea.

You could not call them friends; it was hard to call any acquaintance of the Colonel a friend. One could meet the Colonel, and one did business with the Colonel, and one might even play a hand of cards with the Colonel, but he always kept his distance at friendliness. He trusted Inigo, so far as he could trust any man, and paid him handsomely as a retainer. Inigo would return from privateerin' in the summer, and watch the guard round O'Shea manor. His responsibilities were never clearly outlined, so far as that, but it was understood that the Colonel was wealthy and had many enemies. Odd, it were, that a man who had no friends had little trouble makin' enemies.

When Inigo found the Colonel, he was sitting in his common place at the tavern. There was a man in a sharp blue and gold uniform sitting with him, a man Inigo had never seen before, a man who moved his hands too much when he spake. The Colonel saw Inigo, but the look in the Colonel's eyes told the Spaniard to be small, so he went to the bar instead. The conversation lasted nary a minute or two, and the fancy fellow left the tavern. Inigo took his ale and sat across from the Colonel, who for some bad news could not look up from his drink.

"Where is my daughter?" the Colonel asked, his voice enraged.

"In the manor, where she has been all night," said the Spaniard.

"Did you send some of your crew to watch the door?"

"I did," Inigo was perplexin'."Is something wrong?"

"That fancy fellow you saw me with? His name was Silky. He is one of my rum-runners." He stopped to let the anger fall from his voice, "he said that my daughter is in their hands. She's been kidnapped."

Inigo stood: "I swear by the Cross that we will find her, and bring her."

"They have ten men; their Captain told me so earlier this evening. I didn't think of it before, but that's too large for a runner's crew."

"We have six men here, but if we knew where they were… there are eight ships in dock. We can search each of them."

"He said that they have her in the old guardhouse on the northeast corner. They say they will shoot us to pieces if we try."

"We have five guns. Three are small arms. We can surprise them. We can take care of this."

The Colonel seemed as if he had not heared the Spaniard: "They want my map. They want to find Captain Morgan's treasure."

"What can you do about it?"

The Colonel look o'er the man for the first time; "I can give it to them."

"Why do you have the map?" Inigo asked.

"Because I buried the treasure."

As told by Hildy, the maidservant. - Chapter Eight

Rachel hurried down the gangplank, certain that she had only a moment or two before the others arrived. Hans leaned over the gunwhale:

"Remember, Miss," he whispered loudly," I had nothing to do with this."

Rachel was just about to run around the ship, when the boy called to her again.

"Here," he said, "I don't care what they do to me now. Take this. I can't read, but I think it speaks the mind of my Captain" Quickly, he tossed something onto the pier. It appeared to be some kind of journal.

She ran around the pier as fast as she could, and darted across the boardwalk to the curiosity shop. She took the key from below the windowsill, and locked herself inside. She sat at the table and began to read; the latest entries were about crew supplies, and nautical terms she could not understand. Then she read an entry dated from two weeks prior:

Captain's log:

I have dumped the barrels of rum that I had been commissioned to transport. The price I received is less than O'Shea could afford, but the information I have obtained in exchange may prove one thousand times more valuable. It appears that during a military foray into Panama some thirty years ago, Colonel O'Shea, then a mere Captain, discovered the whereabouts of the century old treasure of Captain Henry Morgan. It is understood by all that the Colonel has the map in his possession. I have devised that the crew obtain this map through some diversionary manner. The details are as yet undiscovered.

Rachel shook her head. Her own curiosity had brought misfortune, and had wounded her father. How excellent.

As told by Captain Finn Jones - Chapter Nine

As told by Hildy, the maidservant. - Chapter Ten

Whiskey Pete shot the lock on the door, and walked quickly through the house. François followed him down the corridor, while the others began to ransack.

They found me in the kitchen, and leveled a pistol at my head.

"Where does the master of the house keep his valuables?"

I trembled and fell back against the counter: "I don't know; please don't harm me."

He strode hastily to me, and pressed the cold steel barrel against my temple. Again he asked his question.

"I told you I do not know," I cried.

"She's no use to us, François. Kill her."

The black man cocked the hammer on his pistol. To save my life, I told them.

"You wan de map? Tis up the stais and down the hall in the game room."

"Show me."

As told by Captain Finn Jones - Chapter Eleven - The Conclussion

"Stand down," Inigo shouted to the mansion. "We know you are there. Stand down and come out."

The Colonel were with him.

"If we come out, we'll come out blastin'," the peg leg called out.

"Is my daughter in there?" asked the Colonel.

"She is. She's safe."

Quickly Inigo positioned himself to the right of the door, and one of his crew took up the left. The colonel stood a few yards away and slightly to the right, near the ocean. Another crossed positions with the Colonel, and three others went to secure the back.

Near that moment, the red coat appeared on the parapet, pistol in hand, pressed on the pretty head of Rachel.

"Colonel… Colonel…" Pete hollered. "Let me see you, Colonel."

Against the better council of the Spaniard Inigo, the Colonel walked th' ground below the parapet. He looked up to see his darlin' trembling at the hands of that seadog.

"Colonel let us leave here, and your daughter lives."

"What assurance do I have that you will leave her alone?"

"She will come with us to the front door. We will let her go on our good will; just let us out of the house."

Inigo waved his hands like a madman, but the Colonel paid him no notice.

"It's done," the Colonel said. "But if you harm a hair on her head…"

The next few moments were strange to both sides. Peg leg and his boys lined against the wall near the front door. Pete and François escorted the lass behind. On the outside, Inigo stood wringing his hands beside the door, whilst the Colonel paced back and forth where he stood near the shore. By and by, a knock came from inside the house."

On the count of three, we come out. We have the girl. She will leave with me last. If any of my boys are harmed, I'll see the inside of this pretty head."

"Alright," shouted Inigo. "Its done."

Pete called the count slowly. "1-2-3…"

At three, the door swung wide, and out ran François and three others. Peg leg hobbled next, as came Pete and three others. Peg leg tipped his hat toward Inigo ere he exited the threshold. They backed up three, and clustered into a group around the Captain. The steps they took were short indeed.

"Release my daughter," the Colonel demanded.

"Not just yet, Colonel," said Pete. "How do we know your retainers won't chase us after we leave St. John. I'd hate to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days. I think we'll keep her and barter with you at the next port."

"By God no!" shouted the Colonel, and discharged his pistol. The pirate in front of François clutched his chest and fell like a clump. It took only that for all hell to break loose. Pete fell on top of the girl, and the entire crew scattered about the place. François and Peg leg took near the tavern, and the others flew in the direction of the ship. Inigo and his boys fired all the while, and those that were around the back joined in the shooting as soon as they heard the commotion. The melee served the pirates better, for Pete was not to be harmed so long as he held the lovely Rachel.

The pistols fired back and forth for a time, and would stop only long enough for one side or the other to get bearing, reload the grape and fire again. Pete backed up to the wharf by now, and stood near the gangplank with the girl.

François and Peg leg were behind the tavern, out of immediate range. They ran in the dark, never sure of the consequence of the next step. Peg leg hobbled as best he could, remembering that the muck was ne'er friendly to a man who used a stump. And then something snapped him hard and he fell on his face.

"François," he called out, "François !"

The Haitian turned around to find Peg-leg clawing viciously at the grass and mud, struggling to get away from the croc - the same croc he had drilled y the head. But the pitiful screaming of the peg-leg was drawing silence and then fire from the Colonel's boys, so François ran to the leeward side of the tavern, out of their range. The sounds from the Dutchman were horrifyin', until they suddenly stopped. François took an open dash for the ship.

Silky was waiting for them. Pete's boys, save François, took the gangplank. As quickly as they could, they settled onto their benches. Pete had already ordered the mast raised, before this business was ever undertook, and the ship's anchor was ready to raise. The two crewman that remained aboard took the covering fire, and the ship was ready to depart by the time the ammunition ran low. The Colonel ran inside the house, to the parapet, where the seadog had stood with his only love moments before.

Inigo saw the black man running across the open ground. He sized up his shot carefully, and discharged his weapon when the fellow had come within fifty paces. The aim was true.

The man was dying when Inigo approached his body:

"You one of Pete's boys?" he asked.

"I-I is."

"You look familiar to me…" the Spaniard said.

The Haitian took shallow breaths betwixt e'ry word:

"I worked for de Spanish Silver fleet, - de Platt. You are Ini-go Castillo. I worked…for…you years ago."

"So you did," smiled Inigo. "I thought I knew you." And he cooly placed his pistol against the man's head and finished the work.

The Lusty Lady was sailing out of sight. The Colonel stood o' the parapet with his telescope, securing that his daughter was still in the good graces of those pirates. For the first time in his years, the old man was crying like a child. He could see the man in the red great-coat at the wheel. They were flying a Jolly Roger.

Hildy, the maidservant, came slowly behind him.

"Colonel O' Shea?"

He swallowed his own voice to speak and said "Yes?"

"I-I did not want to tell you this, Mister, but I feel you should know."

"What is it?"

"Miss Rachel- she- she went with those pirates of her own volition."

The Colonel looked her directly in the eyes. "What are you saying."

"I am saying that Miss Rachel left because she arranged it so."

Rage and fear came over the Irishman's face.

"How do you know this?"

"I heard everything. She could have killed the Whiskey man, and instead they embraced. I heard everything."

The Colonel could not control the tears. The maid tried to rub his shoulder, but he shrugged away.

"Leave me," he moaned.

No one is certain what happened next. Perhaps the old man had felt betrayed by his little girl. Perhaps he was an angered that his map was lost to the fortune of fools. Maybe he just went one sail to the wind.

But what happened will live in the lore of St. Simmons forever. Ya see, on the same parapet where his daughter looked o'er the sea, wishin' for her freedom, was an old six-pounder cannon taken as a souvenir of his days in the service. All on the island thought it was just that; a souvenir. But no one suspected, nay had they an inklin' that the Colonel would load that cannon, point it to the sea, and with tears in his redded eyes strike a flint…

And send the shell that sent his only daughter to hell.

The End