Isle of Swords (21 page)
“He told the lad to make for the mill,” said Commodore Blake, pointing ahead with his saber. He marched at the front of his men.
His head throbbed ferociously from the knot Ross had given him.
And he very desperately wanted to settle the score.
“Do you think we will arrive in time?” asked Sir Nigel beside him.
“I do not know how long I was unconscious,” Blake growled.
“But we will descend upon that mill like locusts. And for the love of king and country, we will find Captain Ross and his men!”
“Look, there!” yelled one of his men. And then they all saw it. A man had raced out of the trees up ahead and seemed in an awful hurry to get to the mill.
“That's him!” cried Commodore Blake. “Now for it, lads! Do not let him get to the mill!”
“I hate not being able to see what's going on!” Cat said as he paced in St. Pierre's study.
“I feel the same,” said Red Eye, sheathing a dagger at his side.
“But we've got to be ready. Arm yourself better than that, lad.” He picked up one of the pistols on the wide table and tossed it to Cat.
“Wait,” said Jules. “No guns.”
“What?” Midge looked up. He had four pistols and room for two more in a bandolier across his chest.
“Saint Pierre said no guns,” Jules explained.
“I'm keeping them,” said Midge, patting the weapons. “They're my babies. Besides, the blasted British will have guns, like as not.”
“Yeah, Jules!” said Red Eye. “Why would he tell us not to use our pistols?”
Jules shook his head. “I don't know exactly,” he said, though his eyes were bright with suspicion. “I think it has something to do with those barrels of black powder he had me stacking all over the place since we got back.”
Midge's eyebrows shot up. “Uh, say, Jules,” he said. “'Bout how many barrels of powder you think he's got stacked up round here?”
“More than a hundred,” Jules replied.
“Oh.” Midge hurriedly removed all his pistols and tossed them on the table.
St. Pierre stood at the wrought-iron gate and waved madly at Ross.
“Dépêchez-vous!” he cried. “They are almost upon you!” He looked to the left. The British closed rapidly. The sun gleamed off their bayonets and sabers. But Ross was closer.
The captain of the
William Wallace
charged through the gate, yelling, “Shut the gate! Shut the gate!” as he skidded to a stop beside St. Pierre. “Jacques, what are you still doing here?” he asked.
“Pardonne, mon capitaine,” St. Pierre replied. “I could not abandon you to this fate you seem to desire. And I will not just abandon my mill to the British for their looting pleasure. No!” He glanced at the storm of Englishmen approaching. “Now, mon capitaine, are we so polite as to hold the door for our enemy?”
Ross shook his head vigorously.
“Follow me!” St. Pierre led an astonished Declan Ross quickly past a wall of barrels and through the heavy wooden door into the mill. This he closed, locked, and barred.
“That won't hold them for long,” Ross said. He turned and started to say something else, but saw the stacks of barrels now on both sides of the hall. “Jacques, what are you doing?”
Jacques St. Pierre did not answer. He knelt by the barrel closest to the door, tugged for a moment, and yanked out its stopper. Black powder immediately began to pour out onto the floor. St. Pierre went methodically from one barrel to the next, pulling out their plugs and letting the powder spill out.
“Jacques, what are you doing?” Ross repeated, his voice growing high and edgy.
Thump. Thump! THUMP!!
Sudden, sharp banging at the door made Ross jump. He skidded in the spilled black powder and almost fell. “Ah, our guests are here,” said St. Pierre.
“Open up in the name of the British Royal Navy!” came a voice.
Ross grabbed St. Pierre by the shoulders. “Have you lost your mind, Jacques?”
“A long time ago, my friend. Ha-ha!” He looked down at the floor. From the door, halfway to the forge, it was covered in black powder. “Let us get the others, and we shall see if the English have the stomach for my little game.”
St. Pierre ran down the hall with Ross hollering behind him.
“Jacques, we can't play games with black powder!”
“I can!” he called back. St. Pierre slammed open the study door.
“Gentlemen, it is time!”
“Where's the captain?” Jules demanded.
“Right here,” Ross said, appearing in the doorway. More shouts came from the other room, muffled by the door at the end of the hall.
“Open this door or we shall break it down!”
“Captain, what do we do?” Midge asked.
Ross looked at St. Pierre. The Frenchman winked, fished out yet another key from the ring that hung on his belt, and opened a cabinet. He quickly took something out, jammed it into a large inner pocket of his surcoat, and winked again.
Ross watched him shrewdly. “Jacques has a plan.”
St. Pierre nodded, gestured for them to follow, and hurried out of the room. He led them to the forge, a three-foot cube of gray and black masonry. He opened its heavy cast-iron door, illuminating himself in an angry reddish-orange. Then he lit a torch from the glowing embers inside. He closed the forge and held up the torch for all to see.
“Now, we wait,” he said.
H
ours earlier, while Ross and Red Eye were in Misson trying to spot Cat's cell, Stede stood at the wheel of the
William Wallace
and bade farewell to the scowling Carib face painted high on the mountainside.
“Douse the lights!” Stede ordered as soon as they were underway. Cromwell and several others went from lantern to lantern, snuffing the wicks within. It was probably all for naught, Stede knew. The sun would be up by the time the
Wallace
approached open sea. If the British were there, they'd see the
Wallace
. And all would be lost.
But when the morning sun was already climbing into the sky and the
Wallace
made its final turn in the Roseau River, Stede began to think they had escaped after all. “They're not here,” he whispered.
Padre Dominguez lowered his hood. “Well done, Quartermaster!”
The
Wallace
surged into the Caribbean Sea. Stede navigated around the shallower waters and began to swing the ship to a more easterly course. “Look!” Cromwell pointed off the stern.
“Oh no,” Stede mouthed as he saw four British warships coming swiftly toward them from the west.
“Can we outrun them?” Padre Dominguez asked.
Stede shook his head. “The frigates, maybe. But they got two schooners, mon. They'll b' on us before we can blink.”
At the mill, St. Pierre and the others did not need to wait long for Commodore Blake and his men. Something heavy crashed into the other side of the door. The door shivered. A second strike, and they heard a loud crack. A dusty beam of sunlight shone in for just a moment. With a horrendous ruckus, the door burst open. Several British soldiers carrying a hunk of lumber the size of a tree trunk stepped aside. In walked Commodore Blake and his men.
“Stop!” Jacques St. Pierre commanded. He alone emerged from behind the forge. He held his torch aloft and said again, “Stop! You are trespassers here!”
Blake held up a hand to halt his men. “Frenchman, you have already signed your arrest warrant! Who are you to stand in the way of British military business?”
“I am Jacques Saint Pierre,” he replied. “And you have no business here. I do not fear England, I do not fear you, and as you will see . . . I do not fear death!” Ross and his crewmen stepped out and stood beside Jacques. The Frenchman smiled, raised an eyebrow, and glared at Commodore Blake.
“Jacques Saint Pierre?” Blake said. He turned to the man standing next to him. “Sir Nigel, why do I know that name?”
The dark-haired man stepped forward. “Jacques Saint Pierre is wanted for trading goods with known pirates, for high thievery against the East India Trading Company, and for sabotaging the HMS
Surrey
on the Barbary Coast.”
“Aw, that last one was never proven!” exclaimed Jacques.
“Be that as it may,” Blake said with a wry smile. “There are certainly enough charges to justify your arrest. And after your deeds early this morning . . .” Blake raised a pistol. “I do not care whether we take you dead or alive.”