The Pirate Ghost of Gaspé Bay

The salt spray stung Edward Jordan's face as he steered The Three Sisters through the churning grey waters of the North Atlantic. The wind howled, mirroring the tempest brewing inside him. Debt, a monstrous beast, gnawed at his resolve, its icy claws threatening to drag him down.
He glanced at the horizon, where the sky bled into a bruised purple, a grim reflection of his own darkening mood.  A shiver, more than just from the biting wind, ran down his spine. He'd always felt a strange affinity for storms, a kinship with their raw, untamed power. But tonight, the storm within him threatened to eclipse the one raging outside.
He remembered the whispers in the smoky taverns of Dublin, tales of rebellion and retribution, of a fight for freedom that had left him branded a traitor, exiled to this unforgiving land. He'd come to Nova Scotia seeking a fresh start, a chance to escape the ghosts of his past. But fortune, it seemed, had other plans.
The fishing season had been brutal. The cod had grown scarce, the storms more frequent, and the whispers of creditors louder. Now, Halifax merchants, vultures circling a dying prey, demanded their pound of flesh. The Three Sisters, his lifeline, his only hope, was slipping from his grasp.
He imagined the iron shackles, the cold stone walls of a Halifax jail. The thought sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, igniting a desperate fury. He wouldn't let them take it. Not his ship. Not his freedom.
A wave crashed against the bow, sending a spray of icy water across the deck. Jordan gripped the helm tighter, his knuckles white. He saw it then, a vision shimmering on the edge of his perception: a figure hanging from a gibbet, a grotesque silhouette against the stormy sky. The image was fleeting, a phantom of his own making, yet it lingered, a chilling premonition.
Days turned into a blur of anxiety and desperation. The arrival of the merchants was inevitable, a shadow looming over every sunrise. Jordan, driven by a primal fear of losing everything, began to unravel. Sleep eluded him, replaced by nightmares of drowning, of being swallowed whole by the unforgiving sea.
One morning, as the first rays of dawn pierced the gloom, he spotted the merchants' ship on the horizon. A sleek, black vessel, it cut through the water like a predator, a stark reminder of his impending doom.
Panic swelled within him, a suffocating tide. He knew he had to act, and quickly. A desperate plan, born of desperation and despair, began to take shape in his mind.
The confrontation was swift and brutal. Two sailors lay still, their lives snuffed out by Jordan's desperate rage. Captain Stairs, wounded but alive, escaped the carnage, his screams swallowed by the howling wind.
News of the mutiny spread like wildfire, painting Jordan as a monster of the sea. The Royal Navy, ever vigilant, soon caught up with the rogue schooner. Jordan, cornered and defiant, faced justice in Halifax.
The verdict was swift and grim: death by hanging. A macabre spectacle awaited him. His body, tarred and feathered, was strung from a gibbet, a skeletal cage overlooking the crashing waves. The sight, meant to deter others, became a grim landmark for sailors navigating the treacherous coast.
But Jordan's legend refused to die. Whispers of his ghost, a spectral figure haunting the shores of Gaspé Bay, chilled the hearts of fishermen. Some swore they saw his spectral schooner, The Three Sisters, gliding through the fog, a chilling reminder of the price of desperation and the enduring spirit of rebellion, even in the face of death.
And as the years passed, the image of the figure hanging from the gibbet, the chilling premonition that had haunted him that fateful night, became a grim prophecy fulfilled.