Isle of Swords (14 page)

St. Pierre led them on a spiraling route through his mill until finally arriving at a massive vault door in the basement, where he held up a torch. The flickering light illuminated bulky locks from floor to ceiling— padlocks, bolts, latches too. “Got enough locks?” Ross asked.

“I told you,” Jacques said, placing the torch in a wall sconce.

“It's my special room.” He fished out a crowded key ring and began unlocking and unlatching. The last bolt slid free, and the door opened with a low, straining groan. “Wait here,” he said. He took the torch and disappeared inside. When he returned, he said, “There are many torches inside. I needed to light them all . . . to make your first glimpse all the more spectacular!”

With a mighty “Ha-ha!” Jacques threw open the door. His grin broadened at the collective gasps and whistles from Ross and his team. The light of ten torches danced upon gold, silver, brass, and copper. Tables on the left were littered with saws, clamps, sextants, and all manner of devices and instruments. The table on the right, to Red Eye's astonishment, held an assortment of swords and blades much finer than the ones he had seen aboveground.

“How . . . how much for one of these?” he asked, a tremor of excitement in his voice.

Jacques replied, “What role did you play in Chevillard's demise?”

Red Eye grinned. “I blew out the hole that sent his ship to the bottom.”

“Then, for you, take any three that you like.”

Red Eye almost laughed—he was so overjoyed. While Red Eye sifted through the swords, St. Pierre encouraged the others to look around and choose something that caught their fancy. Then he took Ross by the arm and led him deep into the room. They came to a set of six enormous cannons, three on either side of the narrow aisle.

“What are these?” Ross asked. “Ten- . . . twelve-pounders?”

“These, mon ami, fire sixteen-pound cannonballs.”

“Sixteen?!” Ross was skeptical. He studied the long barrels, black cast iron inlaid with bronze and housed in dark wood carriages.

“Yes, I know, these cannons look too light for those kind of ship-killing cannonballs. But I found this woman in Portugal who casts with iron and bronze to make the barrel smooth, but relatively light. She claims that they will fire a sixteen-pound ball accurately over six hundred feet.”

Ross was impressed.

“As a token of my appreciation, take two of these for the
Wallace
.”

“How will I get them back to—”

“I will have them delivered,” St. Pierre explained. “You still anchor in your usual place, at the bend on the Roseau?” Ross nodded. “Good. My servants will bring them when you leave.”

By the time their shopping trip into St. Pierre's special room was over, Ross and his men had acquired a spectacular array of goods, instruments, and weapons. Jules even came away with a bag of Mediterranean spices for Nubby to add to his iguana stew. It needed something to make the rest of the crew like it. Red Eye had three swords. Ross picked out a new navigation device St. Pierre called a backstaff for Stede. “That should just about do it,” said Ross.

“Except for the monkey pee,” said Padre Dominguez.

“Oh, right . . . that,” said Ross.

“And one more thing,” said Jules, handing the captain a small, cloth-wrapped package.

“What's this?” Ross asked.

“It's blue coral for Anne,” Jules replied, looking away. “She should have something, don't you think?”

“Right . . . uh, thanks, Jules,” said the captain. “She's probably still mad that I didn't let her come.”

Later, as the sun began to set, Ross, his landing party, and dozens of St. Pierre's hired servants carried loads of supplies as they made their way back through the rain forest. “I don't understand,” said Padre Dominguez. “Why was he so happy about Chevillard's wheel?”

“Thierry Chevillard once attacked a merchant ship sailed by Saint Pierre's brother Vincent,” Ross explained. “Chevillard forced Vincent and his crew to become pirates. When Vincent refused to burn a settlement to the ground, Chevillard had Vincent drawn and quartered.”

Padre Dominguez made the sign of the cross.

15
GHOST TOWN

C
at dangled from the frame of the balcony window twenty feet above the water. Anne impatiently treaded water beneath him. “Just let go!” she whispered.

Easy for you to say,
Cat thought.
You know if you know how to swim!
But unwilling for Anne to think him afraid, Cat held his breath and plunged into the blue-green water below.

The first few moments under the water were the worst. Cat's heart hammered at his ribs, and his lungs screamed for want of air. It seemed like he sank forever, down into the murk. But his descent began to slow and reverse. He did not struggle or flail, he simply let himself float upward. When Cat surfaced, his ears rang. He opened his eyes to a blurred vision of sun shining in a young woman's red hair.
Kick your feet,
a voice said.
There, just like a little shark.

“What did you say?” Cat asked as he spluttered and shook his hair out of his face. He kicked his feet and began to paddle his hands back and forth. His vision cleared, and there was Anne swimming beside him, looking at him strangely.

“I said, ‘Swim, Cat. Kick your feet.' You looked like you were about to sink back under.”

“I guess . . . I guess I know how to swim,” he said, and he smiled weakly.

“There's a lot you seem to know how to do,” Anne said. Cat smiled, thinking it was a compliment, but Anne's gaze was full of resentment. Anne stared at him for a moment more before saying, “Come on. Stay right behind me. We need to stay on the
Wallace
's stern.”

Anne emerged from the water and disappeared across the thin shore into the lush rain forest foliage. Cat followed. He felt wretched, soaked head to foot like he was. And he wondered if he had been foolish, leaving his leather pouch and its mysterious contents on the ship.

The forest looked ominous, dark, and alive. Strange sounds— warbles, trills, and distant screeches—emanated from green depths.

The smell, at least, was inviting. Lilac, honeysuckle, and other sweet floral aromas mingled with the mulchy smell of the forest floor.

“We'll make our own way for a bit,” she said. “We need to get on the main path out of sight from the
Wallace
.”

As they hacked their path through the rain forest with their cutlasses, Cat noticed little orange crabs scurrying out of their way.

There were other creatures as well: colorful frogs, violet-colored butterflies, and an occasional emerald green tree snake. Once, Cat noticed a pair of large brown eyes peering out at them from one of the treetops, but whatever it was disappeared around the trunk.

When they came to the main path, Anne made sure the way was clear and then gestured for Cat to follow. “We're making for

Misson,” Anne said. “It's a town at the base of the mountain.” She pointed up through the treetops. Cat saw the gray-green stone of the mountain rise steeply into the deepening blue sky.

“If you have been here,” Anne continued, “if you saw the Carib's mural, Misson's most likely the place you went. We'll have to stay away from the mill, though. That's where my father went.

But there are alleys and paths I know that can keep us mostly out of sight. Hopefully, you'll see something that you'll remember.”

Cat nodded. But there was still something odd in the way she spoke to him . . . a distance, a chilly detachment. He wanted to tell her about the voice he heard when he came up from the water. “Anne?”

She turned. “What?” She looked annoyed.

“Nothing.”

They walked the forest path in silence, always climbing. Cat's legs, back, and neck ached, and his head began to throb. When they passed the jagged stump of a huge fallen tree, Cat felt his skin prickle. The hair on his arms stood up. Not knowing why he did it, Cat looked suddenly to his left. There, just visible beyond the leafy branches, a narrow path forked.

“I know this,” Cat whispered. Anne didn't hear. She kept on walking.

“Anne,” he called. “I know this.”

She turned around just in time to see Cat dart off the main path and plunge into the forest. “No, not that way!” she yelled. “Cat?”

But Cat paid her no heed. If anything, he increased his speed. With a grunt, Anne ran after him.

Cat was fast. Anne couldn't believe it. The way he'd been walking behind her, stumbling over roots and getting whacked by branches, she'd just figured he wasn't much in the woods. But now he pulled ahead, and it was all Anne could do to keep sight of him.

Driven by impulses he could not explain, Cat sprinted up the path. Everything felt familiar now—every root, every large tree, every bend in the way. The path split once, and Cat didn't hesitate.

He flew up the trail on the left. The path forked again—this time three ways—and, without a glance at the other two, Cat drove himself up the middle way. Then he disappeared around a wide bend in the path. When Anne turned the corner, she stopped short. Cat was nowhere to be seen.

Seeing him gone, Anne felt a sudden sense of loss. This was her fault. If he ripped open his wounds on a jagged branch, if he made a wrong turn and fell off a cliff, she'd never forgive herself. “Cat!” she yelled, even as she charged ahead. The path snaked left and right and up a gradual hill. Anne crested the hill. The down slope gave her too much speed. She ran on, unable to stop herself, stumbled awkwardly through a curtain of whiplike branches, and nearly ran smack into Cat. He stood beneath a natural archway of trees and stared out at a small town Anne had not known existed.

One- and two-story buildings—some white, some pastels of green, blue, and pink—lined both sides of a once-well-trodden road. The sun beat down upon loose shingles and patched-up roofs. Windows were broken out, and some of the buildings were blackened as if by fire. There was no sign of anyone on the road, no sign of life inside any of the buildings, no sounds but the teeming rain forest that surrounded this place. The town was abandoned.

“What is this place?” Anne asked.

“I don't know,” Cat answered. “I mean, I know I've been here before. But . . .”

“You ran that path like you'd run it a hundred times.”

“It's hard to explain.” Cat rubbed his temples. “How can I know this place, every house, every detail—but still not know it? It's like peeking at something through a crack in a door—you know that you know what you're looking at, but you don't see enough of it for it to come clear in your mind.”

“Well, there's a way to fix that,” Anne said. “There's no one here. Let's go take a look around.”

Cat nodded, and they slowly marched along the empty road.

They walked up the creaking stairs of the first building on the left-hand side of the road and pushed open the door. Flakes of chipped paint fell at their feet, and a vile smell—half the stale, clothy odor of mold and half the sickly sweet scent of decay—greeted them as they entered. Flies buzzed, and rats scattered from the half-eaten carcass of some unidentifiable dead thing in the center of the floor.