Isle of Swords (27 page)

Is that me?
he wondered desperately. Feeling suddenly very tired, Cat wrote an “L” and a “T.” And then, in much smaller letters, “Cat.”

Once again, the crew shouted out hurrahs. Even as Cat drifted slowly away from the articles, the crew cheered him and softly patted him on the shoulder.

When Anne came forward, however, some of the crew backed out of the circle near the mast. While Drake did not back away, he made his displeasure known by staring at the ground and shaking his head. But nothing could sour this moment for Anne. She had even worn her best womanly pirate garb. This consisted of a black wool skirt, a dark green tunic, and a lacy white blouse beneath.
Bad luck indeed
, she thought.

She put her hand over the Bible. When she did, the entire scene on the deck of the
Wallace
seemed to change. It was no longer the coarse wooden deck of an aging brigantine. It was a polished floor. The sea air became fragrant. The cry of the gulls, the slap of the waves against the hull, and the jostle of the rigging became like music. For Anne, this was the first day of her life's dream.

“Do ya, Anne Ross, swear an oath to obey and uphold the articles of the
William Wallace
? If that b' yer wish, so say ya, ‘aye.'”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Anne shouted, “Aye!” She snatched up the quill pen and hastily signed her name.

Half of the crew cheered, and Jules put Anne up on his shoulder.

But Drake walked away, fingering the handle of his dagger and muttering. “Trouble will come of this . . . make no mistake. A woman should ne'er be part of this crew or any. Bad luck, it is.”

29
OF SLAVES AND CAPTAINS

C
aptain Ross sat with his feet up on his desk. Stede and Jacques St. Pierre sat near him. “A hull full of provisions and calm seas make life easy enough,” Ross said. “But this journey is not likely to remain so peaceful. If we face half the perils the monk told us about, we're going to need more men.”

Stede agreed. “The battle with Chevillard took more than a third of the crew, Cap'n.”

“When we reach the Caicos,” said St. Pierre, “I will talk to a man I know. He ventures in—what do you call it—black gold.”

“Slaves?” Ross glowered. “I don't barter people's lives!”

St. Pierre was taken aback for a moment but returned fire. “Oh, you do not? Then tell me, mon capitaine, how did you get all these men that sail with you now? Surely these were taken from past conquests and pressed into your service.”

Ross took his feet down from the desk and leaned forward. “You must not have read the articles very carefully,” he said. “Article Two . . . we shall not impress men into service.”

“Sadly, no,” admitted Jacques. “I did not read that very carefully.

I was slightly more absorbed by Article Three.”

“That's what I thought,” said Ross. The anger passed. He leaned back, folding his hands behind his back, and explained, “Not one of the crew was forced into service. Many served with me as privateers before all this. As for the others . . . each man chose to come aboard and sail with me. You'd be surprised, Jacques.

These merchant ships, these Spanish galleons, even His Majesty's privateers—they are captained by tyrants. They break the backs of their crew and pay them next to nothing. We gain a dozen good sailors with each ship we raid.”

“And, when we b' going to port,” said Stede, “we find many a good mon wasting away with no wark to do. Men who know nothing but the sea, and can't find a job to feed their families.”

Jacques nodded. “I understand these young men. They are much like the French sailors who King Louis trained to be warriors at sea.

But when the fighting ended, the king abandoned them. With no money, no command, no other trade—they turned to the piracy.”

“Have ya met any of them?” Stede asked.

“Met them? I am one of them. But I had a skill they did not possess. I could—how do you say—broker deals between rich men.

Ha-ha!”

“It is the same in England,” Ross said. “The same everywhere.

Good men—honest men—turn to the sweet trade because they cannot earn a living any other way.”

“The sweet trade? Ha!” St. Pierre laughed. “It is a funny name for stealing, no? We are thieves!”

“Yes,” Ross replied quietly. “Yes, we are.” His mind was turbulent, like the sea during a squall.
The Treasure of Constantine, if it is really on this Isle of Swords, and if we could really find it . . . that would be more than enough,
Ross thought. He and all the crew could at last leave the so-called sweet trade and live—settle, start a farm, raise a family.
I might finally get Anne away from the sea.
“Jacques,” Ross said, “we'll find men on the Caicos to augment the crew, but they'll not be slaves.”

St. Pierre snorted. “And just how will you get them to join you?”

“Weren't you listening, Jacques?” Ross replied. “I'll ask.”

“I know,” said the quartermaster as he stood. “I b' setting a course for the Caicos. Now, if we could just get some more wind to fill them sails, we might get there before winter!”

Edmund Scully's sloop was lighter and faster than most ships at sea.

But it could not go fast enough for Scully—not with the news he'd just collected from the British. Thorne seemed desperate for information concerning Declan Ross. “Oh, do I have some,” Scully muttered as his sails caught a stiff wind. The sloop raced across the sea toward Isla Mona.

Declan Ross sat in his quarters and pored over a sea chart under the light of a single candle.
Confound the monk!
he thought, jamming the point of his quill pen into a bottle of ink.

“Are you angry with me?”

“What?” Ross looked up. His daughter stood in the doorway.

“Oh, Anne . . . I didn't know you were standing there.” In the flickering light, he was amazed how grown-up his little girl had become . . . how much she now looked like her mother. He stared.

“Are you angry with me?” she asked again, biting her bottom lip.

“With you? No,” he replied, motioning for her to enter. “It's the wind. We're making no speed at all.”

Anne nodded. “The wind . . . are you sure that's all it is?”

“You're just like your mother.” He laughed. “See right through me. Truth be told, it's the monk, Padre Dominguez. I'm trying to plot our course for the Isle of Swords. But he won't show me the map, and he's not telling me everything! All I know is the island's supposed to be west of Portugal. That helps! He says it's his insurance that I'll see to his safety. Pretty smart, actually. But it's maddening not to know.”

“When he gets to know you better,” said Anne, “he'll trust you more.”

“Maybe.” He looked back down to the chart.

Anne rocked back and forth on her heels. “So you're not mad?”

“Anne,” Ross growled. “Mad about wha—oh—that.”

“I can do this, Father,” she said, tears already streaming. “I won't let you down . . . again.”

“Come, sit,” he said, pointing to the chair at the corner of his desk.

She sat and stared at the floor. Her crimson hair fell like curtains around her face. Declan reached through and lifted her chin. “All's forgiven,” he said, locking her eyes onto his and taking her hands.

“You made a mistake, and it could have cost us a lot. But you owned up to it, and in the end . . . you saved us from capture. And, you've no doubt earned the respect of the men.” He laughed. “I've never seen a crew so willing to be whipped!”

The corners of her mouth curled into a slight smile. He could always make Anne smile. It was one of the few things he could do right for his child. “I had half a mind to jump in there and take a lash or two myself !”

“Father, stop!” But now Anne laughed through her tears. The laughs stopped eventually, and they stared at each other for a quiet moment. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Thank you.”

Declan Ross felt about as good as he'd felt in years. For once, he'd managed to build Anne up . . . to strike a chord in that complicated heart of hers. She got up to leave, walked a few steps toward the door, and turned back toward him. Still smiling, she flung back her hair and wiped the tear streaks with her hand.

Declan smiled, plucked the pen out of the inkwell, and went back to the chart.

“You didn't want me to sign the articles, did you?” Anne asked.

Her father looked up, his smile disappearing. “The crew voted for you to join.”

“That's not the same, Father,” whispered Anne. “I want you to want me to be a pirate. Did you or didn't you want me to sign the articles?”

“Anne, you know how I feel about thi—”

“But why? I work hard. I have skills. I know the sea pretty well.

I've learned all there is to learn about this ship—from you, mostly.”

“It's not that,” Ross replied. His reddening face felt hot. “You have very good sea legs. You're smarter than most of the lads.”

“Then why, Father? Why do you spend so much time encouraging them and not your daughter? I've seen you. You find some skill in each of the men, some talent—no matter how small. You cheer them on. You celebrate whatever they accomplish.”

“Anne, I'm the captain of this ship. I have to—”

“But you don't do that for me. . . . I bet you don't even know what my last coral carving was.”

Ross stammered, guessing: “I, uh . . . it was a dolphin.”

“A dolphin? I haven't carved a dolphin since I was a little girl.”

She sighed. “I don't understand. The things I like, the things I want to do—either you don't care . . . or you just tell me no.”

Ross rubbed his temples and shook his head. Once again, things had somehow spun out of control. His breathing became more rapid. He could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his head. To avoid breaking it, he put the quill back in the inkwell. “I do care, Anne,” he said as evenly as he could.

“Let me show you that I can be a great pirate.”