Isle of Swords (32 page)

Ames started to fumble with keys, but Lowther said, “I'd be careful takin' off them cuffs, if I was you. I heard Skellick say this monk bested fifteen men 'fore they netted the blaggard.”

“I have been duly warned.” Ames unlocked Padre Dominguez's shackles and pulled his arms high up on the post. There, Ames quickly wound part of the chain around a peg and locked Padre Dominguez's shackles once more. “That should do it,” he said.

Now, my good sir, you may commence.”

Lowther looked down at the whip in his hand and then up at Ames. “Com-what?”

“Just whip him, dolt!”

“No!” Anne yelled.

Lowther grinned at her and let fly with a terrible stroke. The whip crackled and hit Padre Dominguez's right shoulder blade. His robe split slightly, revealing a tiny patch of skin. Anne grimaced. She couldn't believe Padre Dominguez didn't yell out.

Lowther couldn't believe it either.

“That will never do,” said Ames. “You barely hit him.”

“I split 'is robe!” Lowther complained. “Maybe he passed out from the pain.”

“Hardly,” said Ames. “I can see his eyes. Try it again.”

Lowther rolled up his sleeve and unleashed. This time the whip struck Padre Dominguez in the middle of his back. Again, he barely moved. Lowther struck again . . . and again. His last stroke split the robe even more and opened a gash on Padre Dominguez's shoulder. Anne could see the blood trickling over his welted flesh. And then she remembered. “No!” she screamed. “Stop! You'll tear up the m—”

“ANNE!” Padre Dominguez barked. “Be silent!”

“There now,” said Ames. “At least the monk knows how to endure his due punishment.”

“Yeah.” Lowther laughed. “And he knows how to put a lass in 'er place!”

The whipping continued. Anne counted the strokes. Five, six, seven. Lowther must have been giving it all that he had because Padre Dominguez began to groan as the strokes fell.

“There, Lowther, I think that is enough punishment for one day.”

“Aww, mate. Just one mo—”

“WHAT are you DOING?!!” The whip froze in Lowther's hand. Anne spun around and saw that both Lowther and Ames had gone sheet-white, their eyes fixed on the stairwell on the other side of the deck. From the shadows, a form advanced. He wore a long black frock coat with tails that hung down behind him like folded bat's wings. At either side there were sheaths as if he might carry two swords. And across his chest was a strap with no less than six pistols. He had a dark hat held in his hand and wore a black bandanna over long silver hair. Sideburns knifed down, meeting his frowning moustache and making it appear that his jaw was monstrously large. Anne could not see his eyes, for they were yet in the shadow of his imposing gray brow. But Anne could feel the intensity of his gaze just from the expression of abject terror worn by Lowther and Ames.

“I asked you, what are you doing?” This man's voice was raspy and choked, painful to hear. With several other men following him, he entered the deck a few paces and looked right at Anne, then into the next cell.

“Captain Thorne, I . . .” Words failed Ames as his captain turned and saw the priest slumping limply on the pole. Lowther dropped the whip.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!!” Thorne ran to Padre

Dominguez, tore wide the robe at his shoulders. The map was still intact . . . except for the area upon Padre Dominguez's right shoulder blade. There, a six-inch swath of flesh was shredded and bleeding bright red. “No, NO, NOOOO!!” Thorne bellowed. He drew something from the sheath on his left hip and swung it around so fast that Ames didn't have time to flinch. Whatever it was hit Ames in the upper cheek. Anne heard a sound like a dropped melon and looked away just as Ames fell limp to the ground.

Thorne bent down, took the key ring from Ames, and unlocked the shackles around Padre Dominguez's wrists. He caught the priest and carefully handed him to the men who had come in behind him.

“Take him to the infirmary,” Thorne rasped. “Tell Mister Flagg to do what he can to repair the skin here—stitch if he must, but not to cut. Is that clear?” The men nodded and disappeared. Thorne turned to Davis Lowther.

“Davis, Davis,” said Thorne, sheathing the bleeding stick. “I know this wasn't your idea, now was it?”

“N-n-no, s-sir,” said Lowther. “I could think a no such thing.

Ames, it was. Not me.”

“No, of course not,” said Thorne. “You are not that much of an idea man. But what you did puts me in an awkward position. Before I decide, I must know a little more.” Thorne bent down and picked up the whip. “Tell me, Davis, how many lashes did you give the priest?”

“N-nine, sir,” said Lowther, not daring to lie. “No more'n nine.

I'm sure of it.”

“Ah, just nine,” said Thorne. “Very well, that eases my conscience. Now, tell me, why were you whipping this man?”

“Well, Ames said the priest had somethin' ye wanted, somethin' important, and . . . well, we thought—”

“You thought you would get this item from Padre Dominguez and surprise me with it?” Thorne nodded as if he was satisfied.

“Very well, here is what I have decided. You meant well. And really, you gave the priest a mere nine lashes.” Lowther nodded repeatedly.

He was relieved with the direction this was going. Even Anne turned around to see—though she avoided looking down at Ames.

“But since I cannot let you go unpunished,” Thorne continued, “I will give you the very same number of lashes that you gave Padre Dominguez. There, does that sound fair?”

Lowther nodded—even smiled weakly as Thorne shackled him to the same whipping post they'd used for Padre Dominguez.

Bartholomew Thorne marched back several paces to give himself room to swing the whip. Anne shrank back in her cell. “Now, Mister Lowther,” said Thorne, letting the whip slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. And he began to breathe audibly between his words . . . cracking, phlegmy, and harsh. “It is time for you to receive your due. I could understand if I asked you to give the priest seven lashes, and you lost count and gave him nine. But I did not ask you to whip the priest at all.” Lowther pulled at the chains and twisted, trying to see what Thorne was doing.

Bartholomew Thorne slowly removed the bleeding stick from its holster. He lifted the cruel instrument to neck level and began to twist the top segment . . . the piece with the longest and most jagged spikes protruding from it. “I do not wish for my subordinates to take matters into their own hands. If I give the order that the priest should be taken to his cell, then that is exactly what should be done.”

Thorne twisted the top segment around and around until, finally, it came free from the rest of the stave. He began to pull the segments away from one another, and a long, slender iron chain emerged.

When the last link of the chain came out, Thorne let the spiked segment fall. It swung like a pendulum near the floor.

“The priest, you see, does have something I want. Something I want very much. A map that will lead me to the greatest treasure the world has ever known.” Anne flinched. He knew. He knew about the map.

“But unbeknownst to you and Mister Ames,” Thorne continued, the spiked head hanging down like that of a medieval mace, “the priest does not carry the map. HE IS THE MAP!! And in your blank stupidity, you have ruined the most important corner of this map. Do you hear? RUINED!!”

Lowther struggled against the chains now with all his might, but it was useless. Bartholomew Thorne raised the flailing weapon. With a ferocious cry, he swung the spiked segment at Lowther. Anne turned away.

34
A MAN ABOUT A BOAT

W
hat do you mean, no?” asked Jacques St. Pierre, standing at the door of Gerard Hossa, his longtime friend. “Mon ami, ever I have been your faithful trading partner!” Hossa's door, like the first six doors, slammed in his face.

“Apparently, your credit isn't as good as you thought,” said Ross. He sighed.

“I am a shrewd negotiator, yes,” said St. Pierre, “And yes, most of the time, I get the better of any deal I make, but still, how callous of these men to hold that against me.”

Ross scanned the Caicos coastline hopelessly. “While we linger, Anne is slipping farther from my grasp. It goes against everything I stand for, but . . . we may have to steal a ship.”

“There may not be a tall ship to steal on this whole island. You have seen. These are fishermen.”

“I can't wait, Jacques,” Ross said. “He has my daughter.”

St. Pierre nodded. “He owes me for what he has done on this island. Believe me, Declan, I want to get him also, but we cannot fight Thorne in a rowboat.”

“If only we could get to Portugal,” Ross said. “I know a man there who might have the kind of ship I need to face the
Raven
.”

“Portugal?” Jacques exclaimed. “Why not Venezuela or even Jamaica?”

“I cannot afford to backtrack. Thorne will make haste to his shipyard on Cape Verde. Once he musters his fleet, he'll bolt for the Isle of Swords. If we don't get to him while he's in port, or cut him off, we'll never find him.”

St. Pierre thoughtfully looked left, right, then up. “Ha-ha! I think I know someone who could get you to Portugal. But it will cost.”

Near the shore of Smuggler's Bay, Ross looked over his remaining crew members. Slowly he held out a small bag. “Silver charms, doubloons, earrings, a dagger with a jeweled hilt—anything of value . . . put it in my satchel. It may be the only way to arrange passage across the Atlantic.”

Most of the men immediately began removing necklaces and earrings. Some muttered quietly. “And whether we find the treasure or not,” said Ross, “I promise you, I will pay you all back twice over.”

One by one, the crewmen approached Ross and dropped something in the satchel. Midge shamed a few reluctant men by painfully plucking out one of his gold teeth. Even Red Eye, though it clearly strained him, gave up his marvelous dagger with a ruby in the hilt.

Cat let his leather pouch hide under the folds in his shirt. More than anything he wanted to get Anne back, but . . . the green jewel . . . it could be the key to finding his mother, to finding out who he was.

“This is great, lads, really great,” Ross said, his cheeks reddening. He held the contents of the bag to show Jacques, who clearly wasn't as impressed. “We'll take this and see if we can't be on a ship this afternoon! And, Nubby, why don't you see what you can do about feeding these men!”

“I'm on it already, Cap'n!” Nubby held up three lizards by the tail.

“Captain?” Cat came running and skidded to a stop beside Ross.

“Yes, lad?”

“I want to go with you,” said Cat. “To see about the boat.”

“I'm sure that Jacques and I can handle it—just rest up, stay out of the—”

“Please, sir, I've got to do something to help Anne.”

Ross appraised the young man. “Right. Then follow me.”