Chapter 1: Return of the Pharaon: I
February 24th, 1815.
The lookout at the lighthouse spotted her first, a three-masted merchant ship cutting through the Mediterranean waters toward Marseilles. The Pharaon, returning from her trade route through Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.
Just another day at the port. Except it wasn’t.
A harbor pilot immediately launched his boat, weaving between the rocky islands that guarded the entrance. Standard procedure. Every ship needed local knowledge to navigate the treacherous waters around Marseilles. The pilot climbed aboard between the jagged coastline and the fortress islands that jutted from the sea like ancient sentinels.
Word spread fast. The ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean filled with spectators. Dock workers, merchants, wives waiting for their husbands. Ships arriving was always big news in Marseilles, especially when it was one of their own. The Pharaon had been built right here in the old shipyards, owned by one of the city’s most respected trading families.
But something felt off.
The ship moved too slowly and too carefully. Her sails were perfectly set, her approach flawless, but the crowd sensed trouble. That animal instinct people get when death is near. Whispers rippled through the watchers, What the hell happened out there?
Experienced sailors could tell the ship herself was fine. She handled beautifully, anchor ready to drop, sails trim. Standing beside the pilot was a young man, maybe twenty, dark hair whipping in the sea breeze, intense black eyes tracking every movement. He repeated the pilot’s orders with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
One spectator couldn’t stand the suspense. He jumped into a small boat and had himself rowed out to intercept the Pharaon as she rounded into the harbor basin.
The young sailor saw him coming, left his position, and leaned over the ship’s rail, hat respectfully in hand. He was tall, lean, with the kind of calm intensity you only see in people who’ve faced real danger and survived.
"Dantès!" the man in the boat called out. "What’s wrong? Why does everyone on that ship look like they’re at a bloody funeral?"
"Because we are, Monsieur Morrel," the young man replied. His voice carried the weight of bad news. "Captain Leclere is dead. We lost him off the Italian coast."
Morrel was the ship’s owner. A businessman first, human being second. His face immediately shifted to damage control mode.
"And the cargo?"
"Safe and sound, sir. Every last crate. But the Captain-"
"How did it happen?" Morrel’s tone suggested he was already mentally filing insurance claims.
"Brain fever. Died screaming in agony over three days." Dantès turned to his crew. "Strike the sails, you bastards! Move!"
The sailors jumped into action. Eight or ten men working the rigging like they’d done it a thousand times. Dantès watched them work, then turned back to the owner.
"Started right after we left Naples. Captain had a long meeting with the harbor master there, came back looking like he’d seen a ghost. Twenty-four hours later, fever took him. We gave him a proper sea burial, sewn up in his hammock with cannon balls, dropped him off Giglio island. His sword and medal are below for his widow."
Dantès’ expression darkened. "Ten years fighting the English, survived every battle, and dies puking his guts out in a ship’s bunk. Life’s a real bitch sometimes."
Morrel, now visibly relieved that his precious cargo was intact, climbed aboard with surprising agility for a middle-aged businessman.
"Well, Edmond, that’s how it goes. Old makes way for young. No death, no promotion, right? And since you say the cargo’s worth twenty-five thousand francs in profit-"
"At least that much," Dantès confirmed, then shouted more orders as they passed the harbor tower. "Drop the topsails! Furl everything else!"
The ship responded instantly, gliding to a gentle stop.
"Sir, if you want the full report, Danglars can fill you in. I need to get us anchored and hang the mourning flags."
Another man emerged from below, Danglars, the ship’s business agent. He was maybe twenty-five, with the kind of face that looked like it was permanently sucking on something sour. Classic middle management, kissed ass upward, stepped on everyone below him. The crew hated his guts, while they’d follow Dantès into hell.
"Monsieur Morrel," Danglars said with oily politeness, "terrible business about poor Captain Leclere. Such an experienced officer, so dedicated to the company’s interests."
Morrel glanced at Dantès, who was orchestrating the anchoring with absolute competence. "Seems like experience isn’t everything. That young man knows what he’s doing."
Danglars’ eyes flashed with barely concealed hatred. "Oh yes, he’s very... confident. The moment the captain drew his last breath, Edmond took command without consulting anyone. Made us waste a day and a half at some island instead of coming straight home."
"Taking command was his job as first mate," Morrel said. "But why the detour?"
"Pure selfishness. Wanted to go ashore at Elba for his own amusement. Cost us time and money."
"Dantès!" Morrel called. "Get over here!"
"One second!" Dantès was supervising the anchor drop, chain rattling through the hawsehole. Only when everything was perfect did he approach. "Lower the flag to half-mast! Square those yards!"
Danglars sneered. "Look at him. Already thinks he’s captain."
"Maybe he should be," Morrel said thoughtfully.
"That’s not how business works. He needs your signature, your partner’s approval-"
"And why shouldn’t he get them? He’s young, sure, but the kid obviously knows what he’s doing."
Danglars’ face darkened like storm clouds rolling in.
"Sorry to interrupt, Boss," Dantès said, walking over to where his employer stood on the dock. "The ship’s all secured now. You called for me?"
Danglars took a step back, his jaw tight. "I want to know why the hell you stopped at Elba Island."
Dantès shrugged. "Orders from Captain Leclere. Poor bastard was dying and gave me a package to deliver to some Marshal Bertrand guy."
"So you actually met him? The marshal?"
"Yeah."
Morrel glanced around nervously, then pulled Dantès aside. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "What about... the emperor? How’s he doing?"
"Seemed fine to me, from what I could tell."
Morrel’s eyes widened. "Wait, you actually saw Napoleon?"
"He walked into the marshal’s room while I was there delivering the package."
"Holy shit. Did you talk to him?"
Dantès grinned. "More like he talked to me."
"What did he say?"
"Just asked about the ship, when we left Marseille, what route we took, what cargo we were carrying. Honestly, if we’d been empty and I owned the damn thing, I think he would’ve tried to buy it off me. But I told him I was just the first mate and the ship belonged to Morrel & Son shipping company."
Morrel leaned in closer, hanging on every word.
"Then Napoleon goes, ’Ah yes, I know that company. The Morrels have been in shipping for generations. There was actually a Morrel who served in my regiment when I was stationed in Valence.’"
"No fucking way!" Morrel burst out, his face lighting up. "That was my uncle Policar! He made captain later on. Dantès, you have to tell him the emperor remembered him, it’ll make the old soldier cry tears of joy." He clapped Edmond on the shoulder. "You did the right thing following the captain’s last wishes, even though... well, if anyone finds out you delivered a package to Napoleon’s people and had a conversation with the man himself, it could seriously screw you over."
Dantès looked confused. "How would that get me in trouble? I had no clue what was in the package, and he just asked me the same questions he’d ask any random sailor. But hey, looks like the port authority and customs guys are coming aboard." He headed toward the gangway.