01x01 - The Devil’s Dominion

[bunniefuu]

At its height, the British Empire was the most powerful force humanity had ever known.

Fully 1/5 of the world's population lived and d*ed under the British flag.

Yet its true power was not on land but on the sea, where they ruled with the most brutal and efficient m*llitary force that has ever been: The British Navy.

But the oceans this Navy sought to control were vast, unknowable, and full of terrible danger.

And for all the crown's might, its ships were often lost to starvation, to storm and tempest, and to pirates.

[Men shouting]

So it was that in 1712, the Crown offered a prince's fortune to whomever could create a device that would allow its Navy to navigate this great emptiness with a precision never before known.

With this device, the empire would increase its dominion over the world.

But without it, the ships of the Crown would continue to be easy prey, not only from the gods and monsters of legend but from a monster far more brutal and far more real.

[Clocks ticking]

[Water splashing]

How do they stand?

20 leagues. Two points west.

We can't outrun her, Sir.

Then let's show her we're less afraid than we are hurt.

Aye, Sir.

Hard to port!

Hard to port!

Let's show 'em our Lee!

[Waves crashing]

[Men shouting]

[Device ticking]

Now, Mr. Gadd, it's no small presumption on my part to dismember the image of God.

I therefore need your affirmative before proceeding.

[Whimpers]

[Screaming]

[Men shouting]

[Cannons booming]

Are we dead?

Oh, yes.

[Cannons booming]

Can you finish up here, Mr. Fletch?

I think you can.

I think you're ready.

[Men shouting]

[g*nf*re]

Leave the g*ns! Set to port!

I need munitions and all g*ns!

[Cannon booms]

[Man shouting indistinctly]

Fire!

[g*nf*re]

[Yelling]

[Grunting]

[Grunts]

[Knocking on door]

Mr. Nightingale, open up.

It's Tom Lowe, the physician.

[Men shouting]

Mr. Lowe, are we lost?

We are.

Mr. Lowe...

[g*nsh*t]

What are you doing?

Mr. Lowe.

Mr. Lowe, please.

Please, Mr. Lowe.

Please.

Mr. Nightingale!

I fear these pirates have been shadowing us since we left port.

Why?

Because they know you're on board and wish to acquire your invention.

I'll tell them nothing.

You'll tell them everything, because they'll t*rture you.

They'll cut the secrets from your brain as they'd hack a ring from your finger.

But your device is the property of the king.

I can't allow it to fall into their hands.

For what it's worth, I apologize.

[Grunting]

[Grunts]

I'm unarmed.

And you are?

Thomas Lowe, physician.

Well, then save him.

That's not in my gift.

He's m*rder*d himself.

I'll do what I can.

[Dramatic orchestral music]

[Groaning]

[Gagging]

[Distantly] Make ready!

Set your arms!

Present arms!

For his majesty.

All: Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!

[Knocks] Sir.

Ah, Mr. Lowe, good to see you back in one piece, though it was a close run thing, I hear.

The job had its moments, Sir, but the letters are back in the possession of the king.

Excellent.

Now, have you been briefed on this undertaking?

Not as yet.

I arrived in Jamaica only this morning, Sir.

Very good.

You know what this is?

It appears to be a chronometer, although of a uniquely complex nature.

Given the secrecy that attends it, I can only conclude that it's a navigation device.

Indeed, it is.

This instrument will allow a ship to calculate its precise location while at sea.

A prototype.

The only one of its kind, and its inventor, Mr. Nightingale, he'll be traveling to London to present this device to the king.

You will join his ship incognito, posing as the surgeon.

Nightingale will also have in his possession this.

It contains the secrets of the chronometer's construction, carefully encrypted.

But if such a device or its inventor were to fall into the hands of our enemies...

Quite.

Then my assignment is to prevent that happening.

No, your assignment is to eliminate the pirate, Blackbeard.

But Blackbeard is dead, Sir.

So he would have us believe, yes.

A ghost story.

You k*lled him yourself.

I thought so, too, for many a year, but I was mistaken.

Blackbeard is alive and operates from some unknown location.

There are so many places to hide, so many islands, so many coves and inlets.

It would take his majesty's fleet 100 years to search them all.

But be assured: Blackbeard lives, and he will come for this chronometer, and when he does, you will execute him.

It would be my honor, Sir.

You will not fail me in this, Mr. Lowe.

Your ship leaves on the first tide.

Sir.

Was he right?

Where are we?

The devil's dominion.

[Tense orchestral music]

Three piles, please, gentlemen, three piles.

You know the drill.

Provisions over here, goods for sale or exchange here, and all weapons to Mr. Happ.

We'll keep this and this.

That we can sell and that and that.

This is worthless.

Well, come on, then.

Fine morning.

Indeed.

Although I see it finds you in shackles.

Tom Lowe at your service.

What kind of service?

Anything you command, if only you'd free my hands.

But it's vital that any servant of mine conduct himself properly.

I hope you're not prone to unseemly conduct, Mr. Lowe.

Well, I believe there's nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Then you've washed up on the right island.

Oy!

I've never heard such talk, not from a lady.

You disapprove?

I most heartily do not.

That's Lady Katherine Balfour.

Oh, you know her?

Of her. She's a fugitive from justice.

Regarding which crime?

High treason.

Come on, Bates. Move your ass.

This is the kingdom of a madman.

Then hold your tongue, or the madman will have it.

Nightingale destroyed the chronometer and sought to m*rder himself.

Nothing more could be done.

We did recover this.

We could discern no meaning.

You're not supposed to, Charles.

It's a cipher.

[Grunting]

Please, allow me to introduce myself.

[Blood splattering]

[expl*si*n pops]

[Grunts]

Thomas Lowe, is it?

Ship surgeon?

It is.

Very capable, it would appear.

Passable, I hope.

I'm commodore of this island.

Blackbeard.

We don't use that name here.

Of course.

Forgive my gaucheness, commodore.

It's just that you appear to be...

Well, you appear to be more robust than many would have led me to believe.

I wonder what drove you to the physician's life.

An interest in the mechanism of the human body.

Is that what the human body is, a mechanism?

In many respects.

In most.

That doesn't strike me as a very godly proclamation.

Do you accept God, Mr. Lowe?

I fear him, but I have no love for him.

Whyever not?

Because he wishes me to fear him.

Now, that is a splendid answer.

And you, commodore, do you call yourself a Christian?

Why would I not?

Because many legends cluster about you, Sir, not all of them flattering.

Legends such as?

You're the devil.

You spit upon the cross at sunset and feast upon the flesh and marrow of infants.

Here's my creed.

I suspect that God is a clockmaker.

He wound creation up, and now he sits back and watches it unwind.

Whether to his pleasure or otherwise is any man's guess.

That's a cold theology.

And is there room for the devil in it?

Of course. The devil is an englishman.

Are you not an englishman, then?

No longer.

Then what?

A fellow with no wish to be governed, inspected, indoctrinated, preached at, taxed, stamped, measured, judged, condemned, hanged, or sh*t.

I'm not the devil, Mr. Lowe.

I have cast out the devil, that depraved distinction between rich and poor, great and small, master and valet, governor and governed.

But are you not this island's king?

This island has no king nor wants one.

I serve at the pleasure of my people until it's no longer their pleasure.

I wonder, how did you acquire this specimen?

How do you suppose?

It's the flayed cadaver of a man who betrayed me.

It's wax, Mr. Lowe.

Mr. Nightingale, the clockmaker, has knowledge I very much covet, but distressingly, it seems he sought to m*rder himself before I could take it for my own.

We have his cipher, but ciphers are a troublesome beast.

Consequently, Mr. Nightingale is denied permission to die.

And since our nation finds itself in want of a physician, the obligation to keep breath in his body must fall to you.

And if I were to refuse?

I shall be obliged to see hell visited upon you.

I don't fear death, Commodore.

[Grunting]

If Mr. Nightingale dies, I'm afraid death is what you'll be pleading for, and it is exactly what you will not be granted.

Not all those unflattering legends about me are untrue.

[Grunts]

[Gasps]

[Man grunts]

[Clears throat]

Word from the Petrel.

Who?

We don't know. The ship wasn't identified.

Her captain?

[Man grunting]

Does it hurt?

[Grunting]

Are you afraid?

Because I can help you.

Just ask me to show the kindness you never showed any other creature.

Go on.

Ask me.

Where's Blackbeard?

He was your captain, but he never protected you.

Why protect him?

Very well.

[Grunting]

[Grunts]

Go to the arms of your degenerate God, you unfathered bitch.

[Raucous instrumental music playing]

What do we do?

I don't know.

But you always know what to do.

Then today must stand as an exception.

How so?

I have to keep Mr. Nightingale alive, or Blackbeard will have me m*rder*d.

But I can't allow myself to be m*rder*d until I've destroyed Mr. Nightingale's scarlet logbook.

I see.

So you're not really a physician, then?

Oh, I am that.

But I grant you, it's not all that I am.

Can the cipher be broken?

Perhaps. Eventually.

But it's eminently complex.

I am not persuaded it should be done, not yet.

We're too weak, too small, and this chronometer is too important to them.

They'll gather a fleet and come hunting after the man who took their prize.

They'll annihilate us, Edward.

They won't find us, and this chronometer will provide us with means to protect ourselves, so I beg you, unlock the cipher.

What if I choose not to?

Would you like to learn something about yourself?

Your beauty pales beside your genius, and your beauty is very considerable, but you live for such puzzles and enigmas as will exert your wits.

There never was a riddle you could stand to leave undeciphered.

This code is no exception.

[Indistinct murmuring]

[Indistinct murmuring]

[Whimpering]

Morning.

How was your swim?

Bracing.

[Raspy breathing]

Mr. Nightingale's circumstances are changing.

I need more supplies, medications, remedies.

And you believe there's a remedy for this man's condition?

I do.

Well, then I bow to your optimism.

Ah, you've lost your chains, I see.

A number of them, yes.

So how can I assist?

I need some vessels in which to heat fresh water.

We have plenty of beer.

No, I need water and salt, plus ashes of b*rned leather, if available.

Distressingly, no.

Milk?

It's a rare pirate who keeps livestock.

Do you have vinegar?

By the gallon.

Leeches?

Well, I know how they can be come by.

Castor oil, enough to induce a healthy vomit.

I have a little.

Excellent.

Although this comes to price, naturally.

You do have money, I presume.

My ship was raided by pirates.

I'm lucky to be in possession of my own teeth.

Then how do you expect to find 80 pounds?

A year's wage for some castor oil and a little vinegar?

This is an island.

Certain commodities are in short supply.

You do know this is usury.

I think of it as charity.

I'd like to know how a human head can reconcile two such opposing concepts.

Well, it's elementary.

Then I beg you, enlighten me.

The chances of you living long enough to repay me seem minimal, at best.

Ergo, I hope for but don't expect repayment.

Thus, charity.

How long has he been dead?

[Both grunting]

[g*nsh*t]

[Grunting]

[g*nsh*t]

[g*nsh*t]

[g*nf*re]

The window's our weakest spot.

Defend it, if you please.

Uh, with this?

What are you looking for?

A way to save your skin and mine, Mr. Fletch.

[g*nf*re]

Give me a sword.

[Gasping]

I think I may have need of it.

[Door banging]

Oh, Mr. Lowe! Sir!

Quiet, please, Mr. Fletch.

Quiet, please.

Shh.

[Door banging]

Halt! Halt!

Get me the commodore, or by God, his treasure's up in smoke!

So poor old Mr. Nightingale had the poor manners to die?

He did.

And yet you seem heartily disinclined to join him.

Oh, I am that, Sir, most heartily disinclined.

And here's me thinking you had no fear of death.

No fear of it, but no impatience for it neither.

And what'll that be in your hand?

Your winnings, Commodore...

The key to Mr. Nightingale's cipher.

And if I suffer you to keep breathing, you'll furnish me with it, I suppose?

Very gladly.

But once you've given me the key, what's to stop me stringing you up by the bollocks and letting my boys draw and quarter you with blunted knives?

An excellent question, well posed.

To which your answer is?

[Sighs]

Now, that smacks of incivility.

Then you misread my intention.

But the key is no more, which means I have to wrack my brains, contriving new ways to butcher you.

But it would be injudicious.

And how so?

Because I've taken the liberty of transferring the contents of poor Mr. Nightingale's brain into mine.

You memorized the cipher?

Indeed, I did.

Give me life, and I'll happily decode the logbook for you.

And you'd betray your king, your country?

In a heartbeat.

All for a little more time on earth.

That's all you'd be buying yourself, just a little time.

Show me a man on his deathbed who wouldn't trade all of his riches for just one more second of time.

Whether you'll allow it or not, Mr. Lowe, you have something of the pirate about you.

Follow me, if you would.

Feel free to bring the monkey.

Your prison.

I've been in worse.

If you provide a false translation, I'll know it, and you'll be disciplined.

You may consider the point well made, Madam.

[Sighs]

[Indistinct chatter]

So Blackbeard must keep you alive until you've decoded those pages?

Indeed, he must.

Because they explain the secret of how to build the chronometer.

Indeed.

And the chronometer can reckon longitude at sea?

It can.

And being able to reckon longitude at sea will put an end to piracy forever.

It will.

Then why does Mr. Blackbeard want it?

I mean, if it threatens to drive the likes of him out of business forever, why not just pulverize it?

You know, drop it in the deepest part of the ocean?

I don't know. Why don't you ask him?

And if you refuse to decode the cipher?

Then it's a gallows dance for us both.

Then why are we still here?

You have the logbook.

Without it, the secret of longitude is lost forever, so let's just burn it and be gone.

What's your haste?

I don't want to get my neck stretched or stabbed through the vitals neither or have my eyes torn out with hot pokers or called a monkey.

There's work to be done first and much to think about.

Such as?

[Sighs]

I have another job to do.

What job?

I'm to k*ll Blackbeard and return his head to the governor of Jamaica.

Well, why don't we just k*ll Blackbeard and go home?

I wonder if you might not bellow it just a touch louder.

Sorry.

Can't just walk up to him and s*ab him through the heart, Mr. Fletch.

I need time, and I need access to certain materials.

[Doors bang]

[All grunting]

Shh.

You know the commodore needs this device restored to working conditions.

I do.

And in order for that to happen, you have to complete this.

But the cipher that allows you to do it is very formidable.

However, I've determined its nature.

It is a variation of le chiffre indechiffrable, which means it has one weakness.

Complex as the cipher may be, the key to breaking it lies in a single keyword, perhaps a phrase.

If you were to furnish me with that phrase, I could perform the task myself.

And I'd no longer be of use to the commodore, and he'd butcher me.

Or perhaps reward you.

And perhaps tomorrow it'll rain mutton and unicorns.

[Chuckling]

[Grunting]

[Grunting]

Did she send me a boy?

That's novel.

No, Sir. No.

My name's Fletch.

I'm Mr. Lowe's loblolly boy.

Uh, they're torturing Mr. Lowe, Sir.

I'm afraid they'll k*ll him.

[Grunting]

The key to the cipher, and this stops.

[Grunting]

Remind me.

Did I ask you to t*rture this fellow?

[Gasps]

No, you did not.

Yet here he is.

He was just about to tell us...

Tell you what you wanted to hear, because that's what the cunning fellow does under t*rture.

Am I right, Mr. Lowe?

Thus, t*rture delays what must, of necessity, be hastened.

It's been a fatiguing night.

Would you care to take the morning air with me?

[Grunts]

My lady.

You've got a loyal fellow there, Mr. Lowe.

Treat him well.

[Makes popping sound]

[Grunting]

I must express my gratitude for your intervention.

They do say the true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him no good.

They do.

However, in this case, the observation wants for accuracy, since apparently I'm in a position to do you a great deal of good.

Indeed, but not for long.

My lady Selima believes it would be quicker to t*rture from you what we need.

So I understand.

I, myself, do not.

And I'm very grateful for it.

Mr. Lowe, was it?

It was and is.

Good morning, Madam.

And to you.

Do you swim?

I can, with effort, avoid drowning for a short time, should the need arise.

And has the need arisen?

Unhappily, yes.

I fervently pray it never does so again.

And why's that?

My clothes became soaked and heavy.

The weight of them nearly drowned me.

An argument that seems less hostile to swimming than wearing clothes while doing so.

You make a fine point, but do you not find it disagreeable to get so wet?

Not at all.

It's invigorating.

And how go the spoils from the Petrel?

I'll have them enumerated and in your hands before sundown, but it was good.

Rich pickings.

The fellow with the commodore...

He's a new face.

That's Thomas Lowe, the surgeon.

That fellow that caused all the fuss in town yesterday?

That'll be him.

He and the commodore seem fast friends.

Don't be deceived.

They're two sharks circling each other.

Eat something.

You're getting too thin.

Is it bad today?

You cried out in your sleep.

What did I say?

No words, just sounds.

Selima believes you to be treacherous at root, traitorous to your core.

And I will not have her be right.

I choose to be right about you.

I choose to trust you, and you'll make good on that trust, because here's what she doesn't know about cruelty: You can hurt a man; you can cause him torments to make him damn the eyes of God; but you can't really t*rture him until you learn his most intimate terrors, like I know yours.

You don't fear death or pain, not the way you fear exposure as a coward.

So you'll do as I command, or I'll string up young Master Fletch in the town square, and I will visit upon him such enormities as to make Christ weep.

I'll starve him and slit his skin and scourge him and see him violated again and again and again.

For if there's one thing I know, it's how to spread a legend.

And I'll ensure that the world knows the cause of his suffering is the loyalty of one Thomas Lowe, ship's surgeon.

And that's how I'll t*rture you...

With your own vanity.

[Grunts]

Mr. Lowe...

[Grunting] I'm sorry.

For what?

You saved my skin.

I'm inexpressibly in your debt.

I want to go home, Mr. Lowe.

I hate it here.

As do I.

What are we to do?

I can't buy any more time.

I have to k*ll Blackbeard tonight.

Thank you.

So where are they?

These k*lling materials you need?

The quartermaster's warehouse.

[Lock clicks]

[Grunting]

[Latch clicks]

[Splashing]

Ho!

[Shouting in french]

Allez!

Allez!

Allez!

[Grunting]

[Gasping]

Ca va bien.

[Grunts]

[Water splashes]

[People laughing]

[Tender music]

[Suspenseful music]

[Keys clink softly]

[Door clicks]

[Latch clicks]

Have you lost something?

I had something hidden in this trunk.

This.

Who is she?

My wife.

She's exquisite.

Indeed, she was.

And what was so urgent about her likeness that you had to break in here to acquire it?

It's...

It's all I have of her.

And you didn't want her image soiled in the hands of pirates and doggery.

Quite so.

So you're happy to rob me?

I had no intention of keeping your keys, but the cameo, however, is mine.

[Keys clank]

Far be it from me to keep her from you.

I bid you good night.

Shh.

Who's that? Your wife?

I have no wife.

She could be a piccadilly whore, for all I know.

What's that?

Commodore Blackbeard's death.

[Knock at door]

What?

What do you want, Mr. Lowe?

I'm indisposed.

To discuss this.

I get headaches.

What manner of headache?

Across the brow or...

My eye, down here, on this side of the skull, my neck.

Does it become painful to speak?

[Chuckles] Very much so.

And are these headaches accompanied by visions?

On occasion.

Can you describe the visions?

No.

No?

No.

And this... these things in your head, this is a remedy?

Chinese in origin, I believe.

Would you mind waiting while I... while I...

Please. Be my guest.

Deliver this to the spaniard.

Nobody must know.

Nobody will.

Selima was correct.

I've caused you unnecessary delay.

This is as much as I've deciphered.

Doesn't look much.

God's own truth, it's not.

There's much still to be done.

However, if I were to provide you with the key to breaking the cipher, the work could be done in days.

I'm prepared to give you the key and take you at your word that no harm will come to the boy.

And what happens to you in this scenario?

All I can do is throw myself on your mercy...

[Chortles] If indeed you have any.

So the key?

"Blackbeard must die."

You can see, I think, why I hesitated to tell you, but the cipher is not of my devising.

People fear you, Commodore.

You haunt their dreams.

It's only natural for them to defuse these fears with jokes, poor as those jokes may be...

The way we mock the devil.

So...

Shall we drink to it?

Seal it like englishmen?

Yes, let's.

What shall we drink to, then?

The king.

I think not.

But a toast he will like, and me too...

"Blackbeard must die."

[Together] Blackbeard must die.

[Grunts]

So let's see how your key works, and then we shall talk on the matter of what's to become of you.

[Tense string music]

The commodore...

Will sicken within the hour and die by daybreak.

So can we go now?

I very much think we ought to, don't you?

There.

We'll get away in that?

We'll give it a fine try.

Now hurry.

Mr. Lowe?

What is it?

That's Alonzo Dalvarado, right-hand man to the viceroy of new Spain and sworn enemy to the Crown of England.

Damn.

Mr. Lowe? What is it?

What's happening?

Pirates conspiring with the Spanish.

To what end?

I don't know.

And if we leave because Blackbeard's in his grave, we never will, not until they've spilled English blood.

Mr. Lowe, where are you going?

To save Blackbeard, damn his eyes.

It's done.

[Tense string music]

Bring Rider!

And that's the antidote, is it?

It is.

Can it be relied upon?

Two times in three.

What if Blackbeard dies?

So do we.

Now help me.

[Both grunting]

Again, Fletch, for your life!

Lowe, Lowe... [coughing]

What's he saying?

The surgeon's name, Lowe.

Is he calling for him?

He's accusing him.

Get the... get...

Get him. Oh, my God.

My lady, am I to k*ll the doctor or summon him?

k*ll him.

[Gags]

[All grunting]

Stay away.

I can save him.

You did this to him.

No!

No, he has the falling sickness.

I've seen this before...

The headaches, the visions.

You poisoned him. m*rder*r!

This is a relaxant.

It will abate the rigor in the commodore's muscles and allow him to breathe again.

I warn you.

My lady, the commodore is dying.

He'll be dead in moments.

It's a fine day's work, Sir.

I can help him.

I ask only that you trust me.

[g*nsh*t]

Open the door, my lady!

Open the door!

[Thudding]

[Grunts]

[Gasps]

Stay back.

[Grunting]

[Thudding]

Stop, stop!

Stop!

[Whimpering]

[Grunting]

Wait.

Wait.

[Snorting and spluttering]

Wait.

[Coughing]

[Gasping]

[Coughing and gasping]

F-fine fellow.

[Panting]

Excellent fellow.

[Surf crashing]

[Gentle music]

Can it be done?

You'll have every resource.

What you won't have is my inexhaustible patience.

Can you rebuild it?

Yes, I think so.

I think it can be done.

Good.

This is his work?

It is.

I've heard things about him, not all of it sugary.

Either the fellow saved my life, or he tried to end it, then changed his mind.

Either way, he fought like a dog to save me when those I love were content simply to avenge me.

Which makes him what?

I haven't decided yet.