Isle of Swords (23 page)

“Who is that?” Ross asked, emerging behind Jacques St. Pierre.

“One of Father Espinosa's faithful,” Jacques replied. “Jerome, I think, is his name.”

“Did he recognize you?”

Jacques shook his head and hopped over the edge of the tomb.

“I do not think so. The way he passed out like that . . . I think he thought I was a fantôme. Eh, how you say . . . a ghost.”

Ross laughed. “We might have all been ghosts!” he said as he followed St. Pierre. Jules, Red Eye, Midge, and Cat emerged immediately after. “Jacques, I thought you'd killed us all.”

“In truth . . . ,” said St. Pierre, thoughtfully stroking his thin moustache, “I would rather die on my own terms, certainly not at the hands of the British!”

“How long'd it take you to dig that tunnel?” Jules asked, seeing the Frenchman in a whole new light.

“Moi?” St. Pierre snorted. “Even if I had muscles like yours, it would have taken twenty years. But I am friendly with the Carib. We trade goods often. For three years, they helped me with the tunnel and to excavate my special room. Alas! It is gone now. But what I had stashed away in the mill is only a drop in the bucket!”

“You mean . . . you have more?” asked Midge.

“Of course,” Jacques replied with a dismissive wave. “I have other caches all over the islands. But before I say another thing, Declan, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Name it,” Ross replied.

“What you have done for me,” Jacques began. “What we have done for each other . . . it makes us more than just trading partners.

It makes us brothers. I wish to sail with you on the
William Wallace
.

I wish to join your crew. Will you have me?”

“YES!!” answered Jules, Red Eye, Midge, and Cat simultaneously.

“Gladly,” Ross said, grinning. “You can sign the articles the moment we get on board.”

“Merci beaucoup, mon capitaine!” said Jacques. He grinned and shook Ross's hand repeatedly. “Then I will tell you, I have a grand fortification on the Caicos Islands. There we will gather a dozen of those cannons you like so much. And anyone who dares oppose the
William Wallace
on your—on our—journey, will be sorry. Ha-ha!”

Brother Jerome moaned softly and began to stir. “Now, Capitaine Ross, we need to get moving lest the British discover our ruse. The Carib have shown me the quickest paths, but it is still six miles to La Plaine.”

“Let's go,” Ross replied. St. Pierre led the way and set a quick pace. All the while, Ross wondered if Stede and the
Wallace
would be there when they got to La Plaine.

25
THE LOCKET

I
n his cabin on board the
Raven
, Bartholomew Thorne scraped a thin knife through the barbs of his walking stick. He always kept it with him, and, after use, he always kept it clean. But now he scratched and scraped and gouged—much harder than he needed. Flecks of dried blood, even pieces of wood fell away. Harder and harder he worked, his breathing deepening to a phlegmy growl. Finally, he pushed the knife against the wood with such force that it stabbed into the meat of his right palm.

He didn't yell . . . he didn't feel it. The fire-scarred flesh on that hand would never feel pain again. Thorne removed the blade and absently watched dark blood ooze out of the new wound.
A little payback from beyond the grave, Father?
Thorne did not smile at the thought. The monk had endured more pain than Thorne ever thought possible. But when, at last, his old, stubborn will was broken, Father Valentia had uttered the last name Bartholomew Thorne had ever expected to hear: Declan Ross.

Ross had taken the map—correction—the human map, Padre Dominguez.
Why?
Thorne wondered.
Declan knows better than to
cross me. He'd had enough room on that old brig of his to take all the monks. But he didn't. He only took Padre Dominguez.

The most obvious answer was the treasure. Like any pirate, Ross would be drawn to the promise of legendary wealth. Still, there was plenty of gold to be had from the fat Spanish galleons that sailed the Caribbean. Thorne stabbed the knife into the top of his desk. Of course, Ross could be seeking vengeance at last for old debts . . . but why now? Why after all these years? No, Thorne decided, Ross wasn't the vengeful type. He wouldn't put his life, the lives of his crew, in danger just to right such long-buried offenses from the past.

Thorne leaned back in his chair and looked out the aft windows. He couldn't see Scully's little sloop from this angle. Only the endless turquoise of the sea and, of course, the white sand and swaying palms of the island. This small patch of hilly land in the middle of the Caribbean had once been called
Isla Aves
for the myriad of tropical birds found there. But after Bartholomew Thorne claimed it and made it one of his central ports of operation, it became known as Death's-Head Island.

Thorne got up and went to the starboard window. There it was, Scully's ship, bobbing in the water, dwarfed by the other ships of Thorne's growing fleet. Scully wasn't much good in a fight, but his sloop was fast, and the man had a way of getting information. Thorne shook his head.
Scully's warning saved us in Dominica.
The British had come too late.

Thorne had never asked Scully who his source in the British navy was, but as long as the information kept coming, he didn't really care. Scully would have news. He always did. Thorne expected his quartermaster, Mr. Skellick, to come down any minute with much to tell.

Thorne went back to his desk and sat down. Feeling uneasy, he reached, as he often did, to the upper drawer on the left. It slid open easily. Bright afternoon sun from the aft windows glistened on an oval silver locket. Thorne picked it up and held it in his scarred hand. Ironic, really. He'd hated it when she gave it to him.
A pirate doesn't hold to such dainties!
he'd said. Now, he held this locket the most dear of all his treasures. He had been a fool to attack the British port at Southampton. Their trap had been well set, and their cannons had wrought havoc on the
Raven
. So many lives were lost that day. But only one was real to Thorne. In the fire, he hadn't been able to save her, but he still had the locket.

He opened it slowly and gazed down upon a small painted image of his first wife—his only wife, really. The others were nothing, distractions or parasites. Only Heather mattered. He ran a finger over the paint, lovingly tracing the outline of her heart-shaped face.

The color of her hair in the painting wasn't quite right anymore. It was too dark, absent the crimson fire that shimmered when Heather stood on deck in the sunlight. But the eyes were definitely right. Almond-shaped, deep green like a stormy sea. It was Heather. But as he stared at her eyes in the picture, they seemed to change. There was anger there now, and, worse, disappointment. Within him, an ache began to pulse, and he could feel his throat constrict. The hand holding the locket began to tremble. His heartbeat raced.
What's wrong with me?
he wondered. He'd lost the map, and he'd lost it to Ross—that was it. But Heather's eyes in the locket . . . how they seemed to accuse . . .

Thorne snapped shut the locket. “No!” he rasped. “It's not my fault!” With an enraged growl, Thorne raked the top of his desk with his right arm, sending the knife, a mug, and a lantern crashing to the floor.

What is the matter, my darling?

Bartholomew Thorne froze. He'd heard a voice. He looked nervously around his quarters. His eyes fell at last on the silver locket.

“Heather?” he whispered. His quarters became deathly quiet.

Thorne shook his head.

Ross will not get far. You will hunt him down and take what is yours.

“NO!” Thorne yelled, placing the locket in the drawer and slamming it shut. He stood up, knocking over his chair. “I can't hear you! You, you're dead!”

“Sir?” Thorne looked up, and Skellick stood in the doorway. He did not speak. He looked pale and shaken.

“What's wrong?” Thorne rasped.

Skellick swallowed. “Uh . . . nothing, sir. Well . . . I thought I heard—”

“What did you hear, Quartermaster?” Thorne's breathing became audible.

“N-nothing, sir. I came to tell you. Scully's brought word.”

“The cays?” Thorne asked. Skellick nodded. “Chevillard?”

Skellick nodded again. “What's he done now?”

“Well, sir, it's not so much what he's done—”

“Out with it, Mister Skellick,” Thorne commanded, his voice thick and raspy.

“He's dead, sir. A week ago . . . Chevillard and many of his crew.

His ship was sent to the bottom near Rogue's Cay. Scully picked up the survivors—'bout forty in all.”

“What happened?”

“They were tricked by another pirate.”

“Who dared come to my cay?” Thorne tightened his grip on the bleeding stick and ground his teeth audibly. “Who?”

“Declan Ross.”

A wave of hate overwhelmed Thorne. He began to tremble. He clenched his fist so hard that blood ran from his wounded hand and dripped onto the barbs of his bleeding stick. His thoughts churned like a cauldron of lava. It didn't really matter why Ross had ignored the death's-head he had left on St. Celestine. It didn't matter why Ross had gotten between him and Constantine's Treasure. And it didn't matter why Ross attacked Chevillard. Declan Ross and his crew would have to die.

“Skellick, get word to the other ships: A king's ransom in gold for the captain who finds the
William Wallace
. It is an old brigantine— not especially fast, not especially well armed. Ross tends to hunt the shipping lanes from the north coast of Venezuela up to the cays near Port Royal. Find the ship, kill the crew, but Ross has a priest aboard. A monk named Dominguez. He is not to be harmed.

Is that understood?”

“Every word, Captain,” replied the quartermaster.

“And tell our resourceful friend Mister Scully, as he makes his usual rounds among the British, to find out anything he can about Ross. Scully will meet us . . .” Thorne looked down at his sea chart.

“Isla Mona, the rocky eastern coast—in two days. Advise Scully not to be late.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good,” Thorne said as he stood. Thinking he was dismissed, Skellick turned to leave. “And Mister Skellick . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“You said that forty men survived the battle with Declan Ross?”

Skellick nodded. “Some wounded in varying degrees, sir, around forty.”

“Once we are out to sea again, have the wounded thrown overboard. Then send the others to me one at a time, five minutes apart.”

26
WRITTEN ON HER HEART

H
ow long will we wait?” Cromwell asked. He leaned over the rail on the portside of the
Wallace
and gazed into the dark tree line of La Plaine on Dominica's east coast.

“Suppose it b' ya out there,” Stede replied. “How long would ya want us to wait, eh?”

Cromwell edged away from the quartermaster. He had no desire to be thrown overboard again.