Isle of Swords (34 page)

Bartholomew Thorne checked his compass. “Excellent, Mister Skellick,” he said to his quartermaster at the wheel of the
Raven
.

“Let's stay south of the trade route. We do not want to run into the British . . . not yet.”

“Aye, sir.”

Vesa Turinen was as good as his word. When Ross's remaining crew arrived at his dock at sundown, they found his ship, a sixty-five-foot sloop, loaded to the gills with supplies for the long voyage. Nubby found himself in heaven. There were casks of spices, crates of salted meats and fresh vegetables, and barrels of fresh water. There was even a small pen built into the hold for lambs. Vesa was very partial to freshly cooked lamb. Nubby had never cooked lamb before, but it couldn't be much different from iguanas, could it?

Unsure of Ross's men, Vesa brought a dozen of his own usual crew. One of them, a Spaniard, went by the name Caiman because he was beastly strong, had a thick, muscular neck, and had skin so toughened by the sun and harsh weather that it appeared hard and scaly. And, to Cromwell's dismay, Caiman kept a pet crocodile in a crate belowdecks.

Three days into their journey to Portugal, the crew had fallen into a routine. Vesa, Stede, and Ross alternated at the ship's wheel.

Cat and Midge led teams to handle the rigging and repair small tears in the ship's sails. St. Pierre and Red Eye oversaw the upkeep of the ships eight cannons—not that they would be much use in a fight.

Sloops were good for one thing—running. Even with the weight of sixty men, ten lambs, and holds bulging with supplies, a sloop kept a very shallow draft and could make tremendous speed, especially in the kind of favorable wind they had now.

“Keeps blowing like this, mon,” said Stede, “and we'll make it to Portugal in two weeks!”

“Never made a journey in such time!” said Vesa.

“With all respect to your men, Vesa, you've never had a crew like this one,” said Ross proudly. He looked across the deck at his men.

Every one of them had lost dear friends. Yet, overall, they seemed to be holding up well and finding ways to keep busy. Vesa played the fiddle better than any of the crew had heard before. Jules often sang in his deep bass while the old man played, and the men would dance. Cat and Red Eye loved to spar, and, Ross noted, Cat had improved with each session.

They'd had other entertainment as well. Ross laughed, remembering his encounter the previous day. Ross had been up on the bow when he'd heard bursts of raucous laughter from the stern. Ross decided to investigate. He walked past the mast and ducked under a spar when, suddenly, Caiman appeared. He wasn't looking and bumped hard into Ross. After dozens of heartfelt apologies, Caiman continued on toward the front of the ship. Ross scratched his head and noticed Red Eye, Jules, and St. Pierre leaning up against the poop deck. St. Pierre wore a grin that spoke of turbulent laughter simmering just below the surface. Cat couldn't control himself. He covered his mouth, but laughing snorts escaped. Only Red Eye was able to keep a straight face. “Say, Cap'n,” he said. “What time do you have?”

Ross reached into his coat pocket . . . but came up empty. Then, with more urgency, he patted his other pockets, checked the satchel at his side, and began searching the deck—all to the roaring laughter of the others. “Are you looking for this?” Caiman called from behind. Ross turned and, to his astonishment, his old pocket watch dangled from its chain in Caiman's hand.

“How did . . . but . . . I know it was in my pocket,” Ross stammered.

“And so it was,” said Caiman. “But, with my fleet fingers, I picked your pocket.”

Ross had been amazed completely. He hadn't felt the watch being removed when Caiman had run into him. For the entertainment alone, Ross was glad Caiman was aboard. Of course, no one felt too comfortable around his pet, or, as Caiman called it, his “little gatita.”

Three shrill whistles shook Commodore Blake out of his narrow bed. Without his boots or his saber, he raced out of his quarters and up onto the main deck.

“Commodore Blake!” called his bosun, Ezekiel Jordan, a long spyglass in his hand. “Sir, there's a ship ahead!”

Blake's heart raced, but he scanned the horizon and saw nothing. “Are you sure?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Give me the glass.” Blake slowly traced the spyglass across the rolling seas. On his second pass he saw it. Just as a distant swell subsided, a dark shape was there. Miles off yet, but definitely there.

“You are quite right, Mister Jordan!” he said. “Sir Nigel, see to it that we double Mister Jordan's rations at supper this evening.”

“Aye, Commodore.”

Blake continued to stare through the spyglass. “One mast,” he said, and his shoulders sagged. “A galley, maybe a sloop. Alas, I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

“What, sir?” asked Mr. Jordan.

“Declan Ross,” he replied. “But Ross's ship is a two-masted brig.

Nonetheless, let's pursue. There may be something of interest.”

“That's a British ship of the line, first rate,” said Jacques St. Pierre as he looked through the telescope.

“First rate?” Ross exclaimed.

“Three gun decks,” Jacques went on. “Ninety cannons, at least.

First rate is what they call such a vessel.”

“That under a commodore's command?”

“Commodore Brandon Blake, to be exact,” said Jacques gravely.

“How can ya possibly b' seeing that from here?” asked Stede.

“I cannot see Commodore Blake himself . . . obviously,” admonished St. Pierre. “But I saw his ship, the HMS
Oxford
, off the coast of Dominica one time. That is him. Absolument!”

“So what?” Vesa asked. “I run into the British all the time. I might have to part with a case of this or a barrel of that now and then, but the British rarely give me any trouble. You'll just look like the crew of a merchant mission overseas.”

“We left a rather . . . lasting impression on Commodore Blake,”

Ross explained. “He will recognize Jacques, Red Eye, Midge, Cat, Jules, and me. He'd hang us all here at sea, I'm sure.”

“Ah . . . that bad, eh?” Vesa asked.

“I am afraid so.” Ross took the telescope from Jacques.

“Do we run?” asked Caiman.

Ross shook his head. “We can't afford the time. Maybe we outrun Blake, but that lets Thorne get farther ahead . . . too far, and then Anne's gone.”

“But, sir,” said Midge. “If we get cau—”

“It will do us no good to run,” Ross said. “I doubt we could lose him anyway. There are four frigates with him. If we run, they will fan out. We'd be swept up eventually.”

Vesa looked around. “I will hide you.”

“Where?” Red Eye asked. “Are you going to roll the six of us up in a tapestry?”

“Maybe just you,” Vesa shot back. “Now, shut your mouth and let me think.”

Anne had not seen another person since two deck hands came down to remove the bodies. They'd teased her before they left, and with the dead men's blood still wet on their hands, they'd thrown a long crust of bread into her cell. She'd left the bread where it fell. It wasn't long before the rats scurried away with it. And then it was quiet . . . until now. She could hear someone on the stairs.

“Annnnnne,” rasped a voice from the shadows. The flicker of the lantern caught his cold blue eyes.

Involuntarily, she backed into the farthest corner of her cell.

“What ever is the matter, my dear?” Thorne asked as he stepped near to the cell's bars. A large key ring jangled at his waist. “Ah, yes, I know. It is a bit lonely down here. I rarely have a need for prisoners.”

Anne fought to keep herself from trembling, but lost. His very presence seemed to bleed cruelty and death. “Please . . . please leave me alone,” she said.

He ignored her and pushed his face into the gap between the bars. “Little Anne,” he said. “Now all grown up.” Anne felt a prick of cold, like a corpse's fingernail, run up her back.

“Yes,” he went on. “So much like your mother. I knew her—for a time—before she died. Edinburgh is a marvelous port. I raised my first crew there. Pity your father wouldn't join me then. If he had, we wouldn't be in this . . . situation now.”

“I don't ever remember seeing you,” Anne said, emerging a little from the corner.

“Thirteen years ago,” Thorne said with a sheepish smile. “I imagine you've forgotten much that you once knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Thorne, and instantly his demeanor intensified. “Anne, I have no desire to harm you.” He stepped away from the bars, reached the lantern, and turned up its flame. “So long as you tell me what I wish to know.” He removed a long parchment from his coat, unrolled the scroll, and showed her.

Anne recognized it instantly. It was the map to the Isle of Swords.

“What have you done to Padre Dominguez?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” he replied, studying her. “Nothing but heal his wounds after those two idiots flogged him. He is resting . . . for now. And he may fully recover. You have seen the map before. Tell me, what is missing from this section here?” He pointed to the upper right quadrant, where Padre Dominguez's shoulder had been ruined.