Isle of Swords (33 page)

Vesa Turinen was an old Finnish sailor who operated a thriving trade business from his cliffside home two miles from Smuggler's Bay.

Aside from St. Pierre's fortress, it was the highest elevation in the northern Caicos. When Jacques St. Pierre, Declan Ross, and Cat climbed the last step of the incline, they found that old Vesa was already quite busy. At least a dozen merchants surrounded the odd-looking man, who was seated at a desk and scribbling furiously in a ledger the size of a tabletop. His skin was tan and very wrinkled. His hair surrounded his balding head like a corona, and his moustache and beard fell like an avalanche of fresh snow.

Ignoring the others gathered round, St. Pierre pushed his way to the front of the line. “Vesa!”

“Yes, Miss Hillary, I know,” the old man replied to one of his patrons. “I won't forget your inks.”

“Vesa, it is Jacques Saint Pierre. I have a proposition for you.”

“Get in line, like the rest,” Vesa whined. “Can you not see the customers in front of you?” Some of the other customers scowled at St. Pierre.

Jacques was furious. “Vesa Turinen, you great imbecile! You look up at me this instant!”

“Ohhhh,” said Vesa, and he grinned. “It's you, Jacques! Why, you have come yourself, now haven't you? Usually you send Esteban or Rafael. I expect you want your usual side of bacon?”

“Bacon?” Ross stared hard at Jacques. “But you told me—”

St. Pierre held up a hand. “Never mind that,” he said to Ross.

He turned back to Vesa. “I need you to dismiss these others. I have a huge offer to make you!” This got Vesa's attention. In midsen-tence, Vesa closed up his massive ledger book and said, “Sorry, my good ladies and gentlemen. I need to attend to some personal business. I shall see you in one hour.” The other customers moaned and scoffed at this. They waved bags of gold coins, but Vesa ignored them as he led Jacques, Ross, and Cat out on a wide balcony overlooking the Atlantic.

Vesa bade them to sit and poured them all a glass of something purplish and smelling of fruit. As they sat down, St. Pierre knew it was time to begin the game. “This is an exquisite view, Vesa,” he said, his voice rich with awe.

“Yes,” said Vesa. “Not quite as good as from your hilltop fort.

Aw, where are my manners, Jacques. I am so sorry to hear about your fortress. Nasty pirate work, that?”

“It was,” he replied carefully. “I lost all my wares to fire, but the structure is still sound.”

“That is good, that is good. Now, tell me, what is this magnificent offer you mentioned?”

“Vesa, this is Captain Declan Ross and his ship's mate, Cat.”

“Declan Ross? The pirate? The Sea Wolf ?”

Ross inclined his head slightly.

“I am honored to meet you,” said Vesa. “You are not here to rob me, are you?” He laughed and then took a deep sip from his glass.

“No, Vesa, we need you to take us to Portugal.”

Vesa spluttered and sprayed juice off the side of the balcony.

“Portugal?! Good heavens, Jacques, why don't you take one of your own ships?”

“Oh, that I could. None of mine are due back from England or Spain any time soon, and we are . . . in need of haste.”

“But I am to leave for Venezuela in the morning. I have patrons to shop for and a pretty profit to make.” Ross cringed. “Nonetheless,”

Vesa went on, “I might be persuaded if the price is right.”

“I thought you might say something like that,” said St. Pierre.

“I came with a sampling of what we are prepared to pay if you'll make this journey.” He nodded at Ross, who opened the satchel and showed its contents to Vesa.

“It is a long trip, especially coming home,” he said, squinting into the bag. “And the weather this time of year is not so—you cannot be serious, Jacques! You want me to hire a crew and take you all the way to Portugal for this?”

“No, actually, I have a crew. There are sixty of us that we want you to take to Portugal.”

“Sixty?! For this pittance of gold and silver? You must be joking— what is that, a tooth?”

“Vesa, Vesa!” Jacques implored. “This is just a sample of—”

“A sample of nothing!” Vesa crossed his arms. “Jacques, you insult me. First you chase my customers away. Then you ask me to abandon their monies for this little bag? You may swim to Portugal.”

Jacques felt his throat constrict. “I will put my fortress in the trade.”

Vesa stopped his tirade in midsentence. “Your fortress . . . and the land?”

“And the land.”

“That is . . . more substantial. But no, forgive me for saying this, but there is not much left of your fortress. I would need to put in so much work, and I am old.”

“But think of the view—a fine place to retire.”

“Ahhh, yes, that is true. . . . No, I cannot! Jacques, my friend, . . . I . . . I just cannot. Now, I must go and open my ledger.” Vesa finished his glass in one swallow, stood, and started to walk away.

“Wait,” Cat said. “Wait, Mister Turinen, I have something . . . something to sweeten the deal.” Ross and Jacques looked at him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Vesa turned slowly toward Cat.

Reaching into his shirt, Cat fished out the pouch and opened it.

He reached inside and removed the green jewel. The sun exposed every brilliant facet. It flashed and sparkled like no jewel anyone on that balcony had ever seen before. Vesa nearly tripped getting back to the table.

“I have never seen an emerald that size before,” said Jacques.

“Emerald?” Vesa scoffed. “You are losing your eye!” He reached into one pocket of his trousers after another until, at last, he brought out a small eyeglass. “This, this is a green diamond. I have never seen one before, but I would stake my life upon it.” He turned to Cat. “Where did you find this, my lad?”

“I, uh . . . my mother gave it to me.”

“And you would part with this for you and your friends to go to Portugal?”

Cat caught an odd glance from Captain Ross. It seemed he was willing Cat to say no. But Cat thought of Anne. “I will give this to you, Mister Turinen, if you would bear us to Portugal.”

Vesa eyed Cat's pouch. “You, uh, have any more of these in there?”

Cat's shoulders hunched. “No, it's the only one.”

“And one of a kind, I'll wager,” said Vesa. “Very well. For this, the fortress, and the land . . . I accept your offer. When do you wish to leave?”

Ross looked at Cat, and pride swelled within him. He turned to Vesa. “By sundown today.”

“Let me think. Portugal is a three-week journey—two and a half if we have prevailing winds the entire voyage. You don't just up and go. You need provisions for your crew?”

Ross nodded.

“Ah, I see.” Vesa held the jewel up to admire it in the sunlight.

“A green diamond! I must have it. Get your men, Jacques. Meet me at the sloop at sundown. I will make all the arrangements. I have not been to Portugal in a long time. I will bring many wares to sell.

Tapestries, cane sugar, spices—this may well be more profitable than Venezuela, after all.”

35
A VAST OCEAN

F
lagg, the
Raven
's ship surgeon, lifted the bandages off Padre Dominguez's wounded shoulder. “The bullwhip those idiots used shredded the skin. Even so, I have done my best stitchwork. There just was not enough flesh left.”

“That is the best you could do?” rasped Thorne. He looked down upon the purplish flesh and the crisscrossing stitches.

“It will look better when it heals. You may be able to make out more of the map's details at that time.”

“It has been three days,” Thorne complained. “How much longer will that take?”

“The color will fade and return to normal in another week, maybe two.”

Thorne scanned the map, following the sea lanes he'd need to travel from the coast of Africa, slightly east of the Azores Islands, and north . . . but how far and through what peril, he could not tell. “I need this information, or we could be hunting in the open ocean for years!”

“There are other ways to get the information,” suggested Flagg.

He reached for a long rectangular wooden case and delicately caressed its top. “When he has recovered, I feel certain I can . . . persuade this monk to describe the rest of the map.”

Thorne smiled. “Very well. In the meantime, Skellick has a man good with a sketch. Marley, I think is his name. I will have him come and draw up a sea chart based on the monk's unspoiled flesh.”

Flagg nodded and put his wooden case back on the shelf.

The hundred-gun HMS
Oxford
led a flotilla of five warships east across the Atlantic. Sir Nigel paced in front of his friend's desk in the captain's quarters
.
“We must turn back, Commodore,” he said.

“Or at least get word to a goodly portion of our fleet to turn back.

Declan Ross is one pirate—a particularly irritating pirate, yes—but just one of many, nonetheless. We have left many of our settlements undermanned and our shipping lanes unguarded.”

Commodore Blake did not respond. He held his head in his hands and leaned forward over the sea charts he'd scoured day after day. In truth, he wanted to return to New Providence, where his beloved wife, Dolphin, waited impatiently.

“Commodore? Do you intend to sail all the way to England?”

“Nigel, I am caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. To return to New Providence or sail on to England—without Thorne or Ross to show for the effort? That is no way to maintain a new commission.”

“True, sir, but should something happen to one of our settlements in our absence . . .”

“Aw, this is madness!” Blake slammed his fist on the chart. “How do the pirates continually outwit us, Nigel?”

“It is a vast ocean, my lord,” he replied. “His Majesty's Navy is yet too small to cover it all.”

“Very well.” Blake motioned for Nigel to look at the sea chart.

“We will return, but what route do you suggest?”

“I do not think we should simply retrace our steps. Let us chart a more northerly route. If by chance we are ahead of Ross and he is making for his homeland, we may yet catch him in our snare.”

“What a miracle that would be,” said the commodore. “Send word to Mister Jordan, plot us a course back to the Caribbean. Keep a bit north of the usual trade route.”