Isle of Swords (11 page)

“No, my friend, it isn't. If the nations we sailed for hadn't cut us all loose, I doubt if many of this crew would have ever turned to piracy! Now, in spite of everything I've done to convince her otherwise, Anne thinks her only lot in life is to become a pirate. I'll burn before I let that happen.”

“There b' no need to burn. Anne is smart, like you. She'll come round. And the treasure b' opening doors beyond the lure of the sea.”

“I hope you're right,” Ross replied, looking out across the waves. But he wondered if Anne was already too far gone.

12
THE CAT'S OUT OF THE BAG

I
s there anything I can do to help?” the lad asked.

“Well, look who's up and walking around on deck!” Ross exclaimed. “Don't let Nubby see you out of bed.”

“Too late,” said the lad. “He threatened to hit me with a spoon.” They laughed. The lad stared out on the sea. A low gray mantle of rain clouds waited on the horizon, but there was no land in sight. “Where are we?”

“About a day southwest of Dominica,” the captain replied.

The lad nodded absently. He spotted Anne across the deck. She carried a large wooden bucket and disappeared at the forecastle. Uncomfortable silence fell upon them both.

Ross stood at the helm. He had one hand on the wheel. The fingers of the other twirled curly strands of his coppery beard. “Anne told me,” Ross said at last. “About your memory, I mean.” More silence. “Anything come back?” The lad looked away, rubbed his hand across the diminishing welts on his forehead, and brushed back his hair.

“That's hard, lad,” said Ross without a trace of pity in his eyes. “But the sea is hard. I've seen men—good men—take ill and die from a scratch no bigger than an inch. And here's you, near flayed alive. No infection. Nubby says you'll be fine in a week. You got something to live for, and that's a fact.”

Ross scratched through his beard to his chin. “For now, you'll be living with us on the
William Wallace
. And as the captain of this old brigantine, I've a mind to accept your offer to help. But . . . I won't be going around calling you lad or boy or some such. If you can't remember your name, I'll give you one.”

The lad laughed in spite of himself. This red-bearded pirate with twinkling gray eyes had an odd air about him. Confidence, arrogance, or insanity—the lad wasn't sure which.

“Now we got Nubby, whose real name is William Christopher Jenkins, but we call him Nubs, well . . . for obvious reasons. Then we got Red Eye Bill Scanlon, who had a bit of trouble with a powder cartridge. Some men win a name in combat like Cutlass Jack Bonnet and Musketoon MacGready. But you, I was thinking, you've been whipped near to death, that's plain. And by the look of those wounds, by a cato'-nine-tails, no doubt. Not one man in fifty lives through the beating you took. Nine lives you got, or so it seems. So, for now—at least until you remember your rightful name—I, and my crew, will call you Cat.”

“Cat?” The lad rolled the name over in his mouth.

“Done and done,” said the captain. “Now, you said you wanted to help out, and that's good. Every man aboard must earn his keep.

You ever worked on a ship before?” The words were barely out of his mouth when he realized how stupid the question was. “Of course, you don't remember. Right.” Cat sighed.

Ross looked out to sea and up and down the deck. “Ah!” he said.

He pointed off the port rail. “See that squall line. The wind's going to come at us from the east—a better breeze than we've got now.

We'll want another sail.” Ross gestured for Cat to follow. They came to the mainmast and stood beneath a vast white sail billowing softly in the wind. But up above the main, another sail was bound, tied to a wide spar. “That's the topsail,” Ross said. He pointed to the web of ropes and rigging that stretched from the deck to the main boom. “I'm going to climb up there, untie the bindings, and let the sail loose. . . . When I give you the signal, just hoist away on this rope, and watch.”

From atop the forecastle, Anne scrubbed the deck and watched her father. She was amazed at the interest he'd taken in the lad they'd rescued.
Ever since we left for Dominica
,
he's been hovering over him like a mother hen
. She worked the scrub brush a little harder, its bristles digging into the debris and sediment on the deck.

She'd told her father about the memory loss, and he'd stewed over the name.
Cat.
Anne frowned and scrubbed harder. Little flecks of black and brown flicked off and flew this way and that. She watched her father smile and point at the sails and rigging . . . and smile again. “Look at him,” she mumbled to herself. “The first time he's able to walk around on deck . . .” Her words trailed off into a deep growl. She dropped the scrub brush, stood, and scowled at her father.

Declan Ross saw his daughter's glare and wondered,
Now what is she angry about?
He shrugged and turned back to hand the rope to Cat, but . . . he was gone. Ross looked about the deck. No sign. The nearest hatch was still secured. Ross hadn't heard a splash, so he couldn't have gone overboard.
Where in tarnation—
“Up here!” came a voice from above.

Ross craned his neck, and there, standing on the boom like he owned the ship, was Cat. Ross looked back at the rigging, then back up to Cat. He realized not only had Cat clambered up the rigging in a flash, but he had also untied the bindings and loosened the topsail. Ross mouthed, “How?”

Cat cocked an eyebrow and grinned. Looking out to sea, his eyes narrowed. To the captain's horror, Cat grabbed the top of the rope Ross had been holding and leaped off the boom. As Cat fell, the gaff frame rose to the top of the mast, and the topsail went up. Cat landed softly on the deck next to Ross and tied off the rope. A split second later, an easterly wind barreled into the sails of the
William Wallace
.

The ship lurched and picked up speed, and several of the crew cheered.

Anne watched as her father let out a thunderous laugh and grasped Cat by his shoulders. Jules, Red Eye, Midge, and others—all smiles—surrounded Cat and joined in the merriment.

Anne went back to scrubbing the deck.

“He's a sailor,” Ross declared in his quarters later that evening. “A pirate or merchant marine.”

Stede nodded. “Mayb' British navy?”

“I thought of that,” Ross replied. “That would explain his knowledge of the ropes and rigging. But his accent isn't British—at least not mainland British. Reminds me more of the settlements, a hint of the islanders' speech too.

“There's something else . . . something that takes the navy out of the picture. He's got more than the instinct for the sea any good sailor has . . . he's got that flair . . . that pirate risk. Not only did he raise the topsail just as the wind came, but he did it by leaping off the boom—and this, just days after lying near death!”

“That mon b' reckless,” Stede said. “But it b' a calculated kind of reckless. Knows what him b' doing so the risks don't matter. I seen it too. This afternoon, I let Cat take the wheel for a spell. I tell you, him's hand was as steady as granite. And b'fore I knew what him was doing, him steered the ship down the backside of a swell and into a gale wind I didn't see.”

Ross leaned back so he was no longer visible in the flickering light of the lanterns. “I'm sure of it. Cat is a pirate.”

13
AN UNEASY ALLIANCE

T
he
William Wallace
drifted slowly with the current of the Roseau River on the lower western quarter of the island of Dominica.