Isle of Swords (12 page)

The early morning sun was already hot. The humid air was thick with motes and tiny insects. Walls of deep green foliage rose up on both sides of the river. And beyond the treetops towered rugged mountains, dark and stony, impassive and ageless.

Sweat glistened on Red Eye's bare chest. He dodged another slash from his opponent's cutlass. A collective gasp whooshed out from the crowd gathered on deck to watch them spar. “Whoa, lad!” Red Eye exclaimed. “That one would've put my head in the river!”

Cat grinned but did not let up. He drove Red Eye back toward the mainmast and peppered him with short jabs. But Red Eye was good, one of the best on the ship. He parried and blocked every one of Cat's attacks. He saw the openings, and, in a real fight, he would have taken Cat down. Still, the kid was pretty solid—better than most—and just shy of amazing for a lad of just . . . what? Fifteen . . . sixteen maybe?

“You're holding back!” Cat yelled. Red Eye just grinned. He sidestepped a heavy slash and spun around the mast. He knew to bring the attack to the kid. His left hand on his hip, Red Eye unfolded a powerful hacking blow that sent Cat reeling to one knee on the deck. But Cat wasn't without a trick of his own. He slapped the flat of his blade hard against the deck. It distracted Red Eye for an instant—all Cat needed. He sprang up like a pouncing lion and struck with such a heavy backhanded stroke that Red Eye nearly dropped his sword. Red Eye growled.
Enough of this!
He moved much faster than Cat imagined. His cutlass became a blur, and Cat found his own sword being battered back and forth with no time for a reply. The next thing Cat knew, his cutlass clattered to the deck, and Red Eye's blade leveled an inch from Cat's chest.

“STOP this nonsense!” a voice rang out. The crowd parted and began to scatter as Nubby stomped through, swinging a wooden spoon. Red Eye lowered his cutlass and, oblivious to the rants of the ship's cook, offered a hand to Cat.

“Well played,” Red Eye said as they shook. “Where'd you learn to fight like that?”

Cat smiled weakly. His chest heaved out heavy breaths. His thoughts raced. “I don't know . . . I . . . I just wanted to try.”

“What 're ya doin'?” Nubby practically shrieked. To Cat's horror, Nubby lifted the back of his shirt. “Ya trying to open up these wounds again? Ya want to die a gangrenous death?”

“Please . . . don't!” Cat stepped away, hoping no one, especially not Red Eye, had seen. “I'm sorry. I just wanted some exercise.”

“Exercise? EXERCISE?!” Nubby's face became almost as red as Cat's. “Ya can find plenty of that without near killing each other!”

Red Eye swallowed back a laugh. He knew that would only make Nubby angrier. He'd felt the wrath of Nubby's wooden spoon before and had no desire to feel it again.

“Well,” Nubby went on, “if it's exercise ya want, I think I can manage a bit for ya! At five bells, get ya down below. I have a mountain of potatoes that need peelin'.”

Nubby wheeled about, lumbered across the deck, and disappeared through an open hatch. Cat shook his head and reached down for the cutlass he'd been using. When he stood up straight, he felt dizzy.
I'm exhausted,
he thought.
Maybe Nubby was right.
Cat sighed and handed the cutlass to Red Eye. “Thanks for letting me use this.”

Red Eye held up a hand. “Keep it,” he said. “It suits you.”

“No, I couldn't. It—”

“Besides,” Red Eye said, turning his back to Cat's protest. “I have a dozen more down below. Probably buy a few when we go to shore. Ha!”

A dozen more swords,
he thought. Cat looked down at
his
new cutlass and wondered.

The voices came just as the
Wallace
rounded a bend in the river. After peeling potatoes and eating lunch, Cat had returned to the deck. A massive cliff wall overshadowed the turn in the Roseau. Clefts and nooks in the gray rock gave it the appearance of a scowling skull face.

Adding to the effect, wide violent splashes of red surrounded the two cleft eye sockets. Yellow streaks were painted beneath each eye and down from the corners of the mouthlike cave. They made Cat shiver. And then the voices came.

It's looking at me,
came one voice, young and anxious.

Do not be afraid,
answered a woman's voice, tender . . . loving.

It means we're almost there.

Cat coughed, fell to one knee on the deck. His ears rang. His vision blurred. He rose, leaned over the rail, and vomited.

Anne watched Cat from her perch in the crow's-nest on the mainmast. She'd been observing him with a mix of anger . . . and fascination. But when she saw him go down and retch over the side, such thoughts were blasted away by worry. She grabbed the web of rigging and slung herself down to the deck. She ran to him and put a careful hand on his shoulder.

“Cat, what's wrong?” she said. “What happened?”

“I heard something,” he said, spitting over the side. He didn't know why he was telling her. But somehow, of all the crew he had met so far, he felt a connection to Anne. “There were voices . . . in my head.”

“Voices?” Anne leaned over the rail to look at him. “Cat, did you remember something?”

“I . . . I don't know.” He coughed, spat again. “I didn't recognize the voices. But . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked up at the skull face of the cliff. “I think I've been here before.”

“Absolutely not,” Declan Ross said, marching up the stairs from his quarters. Cat was right on his heels. “Not in your condition.”

“But, Captain,” Cat argued. “You saw me climb the rigging. I can handle carrying a few sacks of grain.”

The captain did not turn around but continued striding up on deck. “You'll be strong as an ox when you're well, but I heard what happened today with Red Eye. Nubby said you looked like you were about to pass out. And it won't be just sacks of grain. We're talking hundreds of pounds of rope, barrels of black powder, and crates of cannon shot. This is heavy stuff.”

“But, sir,” Cat said, and he made the mistake of grabbing the captain's arm. “I—”

“Don't!” Ross turned around and brushed off Cat's arm. “Don't ever do that again. I am the captain of this ship.” He saw the crestfallen look in Cat's eyes and wished he hadn't been so abrupt. He softened. “What on earth has you so on fire to visit the shores of Dominica anyway?”

Cat glowered. “I recognized that face in the cliff.”

Ross looked up at the scowling rock. “That?” He pointed.

“That's an old warning talisman. Carib Indians painted those rocks years ago to warn the English—and the French—not to come any farther inland. Scary folk, those Carib. Even today, it's best not to mess around in the forests up north. You've seen this place before?”

“I'm not sure,” Cat replied. “But I think if . . . if I go ashore, I might start to remember.”

Ross felt like something had a grapple-hold on his heart. Cat couldn't remember anything. Not one thing. Here was a chance that he could maybe trigger something, bring his identity back. And yet, Ross knew he had to say no. The thing that really troubled him:

He couldn't tell if he was saying no purely because he was worried about Cat's health.

“I'm sorry, Cat,” Ross said finally. “We've a lot to do, in a very short time, and we cannot take the risk of you getting yourself hurt.

Besides, the British navy has been known to make port here. If we need to make a hasty exit, we can't risk you falling behind.”

Ross joined a group of sailors by the rail. They began lowering a cutter into the river. Cat watched and wondered if he'd ever remember who he was.

Cat lay cramped in a hammock slung between two ceiling planks only three feet apart. He figured he should be happy with the accommodations in Stede's wardroom. He was alone while most of the crew slept in very crowded quarters on the lower gun deck. And the rest of the crew had their hammocks hung with just eighteen inches between them.

The landing party had been gone for several hours. Cat stayed busy for most of that time, but it drove him crazy to see the shores of Dominica and not be able to explore them. So even though there were still many hours of daylight left, he had made his way belowdecks to Stede's quarters. But sleep did not come, not a hint of it. He swayed gently in the hammock, held his leather pouch on his stomach, and wondered about the contents.
The green jewel has to be worth something,
he thought. He wondered if he could use it to hire someone to take him back to the island where he had been found.
Probably not
, Cat decided. He didn't even know where that island was or what it was called. He didn't really want to lose the jewel anyway. It might have belonged to him, might be a clue to his identity.
Might be.

The tarnished cross with the strange markings was even more puzzling. He'd studied it and discovered that on the long end it was serrated, tiny jags and grooves cut into the metal—almost as if it had been placed in some sort of holder or stand.

But of the three items, none was more vexing than the lock of red hair. It was lush and soft and brilliantly crimson. But whose was it? The thought occurred to him that Anne's hair was red like that.

But she didn't know him. They'd just— There came a knock at the door. It was faint and subtle, but Cat was sure there had been a knock. Who? Stede wouldn't knock. Cat slid out of the hammock and dropped quietly to the ground. His muscles protested. The sparring in the morning had worn him out.