Isle of Swords (28 page)

“But I promised your mother. I—”

“When did you promise her, Father?!” Her voice became shrill.

“You were out to sea when she . . . when she killed herself.”

“What did you say?” Ross stood. He could barely breathe.

Anne started to tremble. She knew she'd gone too far, but she kept going. “I know you and Aunt Isabel always told me Mother died of the pox, but when we were in port two years after, I heard you and old Mrs. Penniworth talking. I heard you say it.”

“Abigail—your mother—did not kill herself !” Ross yelled.

“How do you know?” Anne asked. “You weren't even there.”

The moment the words were gone from her lips, she wished she could get them back. She watched the anger in her father's face bleed away into a sad kind of exhaustion. He looked old. He sounded old when he said, “Go to your quarters.”

“I'm sorry, Father, I shouldn't have—”

“I command you to go to your quarters, NOW!”

When Anne was gone, Declan Ross sank back into his chair and hunched over the sea charts. He remembered that day, so long ago.

With the
Wallace
full of gold and other prizes, he'd made port in Edinburgh, ready for a kiss from his wife and a hero's welcome.

He'd received neither.

He remembered the way everyone treated him so strangely. He remembered when Isabel, his wife's sister, gave him the news. He hadn't believed it then. And he didn't believe it now. Abigail did not take her own life. One day, he'd prove it.

But none of that changed the fact that she was gone. And none of that changed the fact that Anne was right. When Abigail died, he hadn't been there to protect her. He was out to sea . . . just like now.

Isabel had offered to let Anne stay with her, but he'd refused. It was one of a thousand decisions he'd probably wonder about for the rest of his life.

Declan Ross strode across the main deck just after sunrise. It had been a rough night. Little sleep. Too many unknowns—Anne being chief among them. He nodded to Stede and continued on. This time of the morning, he liked to go up on the forecastle deck at the front of the ship. With the deck all to himself, he could stare out at the endless horizon. And somehow, his thoughts would come together.

He climbed the ladder and went right to the rail and . . . and there was Cat.

“Cat,” Ross said, “this isn't your watch.”

“I know,” Cat replied. “I couldn't sleep.”

Ross nodded. They were quiet for some time, each busy with his own thoughts.

“It's nice up here,” Cat said, and he smiled.

But Ross could tell that something troubled him. “You regret your decision?” he asked. “Joining the crew?”

Cat looked sharply at the captain and lowered his eyes. “I like the crew,” he said. “I like being on the ship. I love being out on the water.” Cat laughed. “It's so odd, though, knowing how to do things, learning so fast. Seems like I was born for the sea, but . . . I don't know.”

“You're wondering if you should be a pirate?”

Cat nodded, embarrassed. “I think that's pretty much it.” He looked out over the water to the clouds, gray-blue and strangely flat.

Ross fixed a shrewd eye on Cat and stroked his coppery beard a few times. “It's hard because so many pieces of your past are missing. But I'll tell you something that's as sure as Stede's hand at the wheel. You, my lad, were a pirate before you ever set foot on the
William Wallace
.”

30
THREE FATEFUL DECISIONS

I
don't understand,” said Padre Dominguez. “We have provisions. Why do we need to stop again?”

Padre Dominguez pressed his hands onto the front of Ross's desk. Leaning forward and staring with those black eyes, he was an imposing man.

“Our crew is capable, but for this kind of journey we'll need more men,” said Ross, his feet up, leaning back, and a knowing grin curling at his lips. “Besides, we don't have
all
the provisions, Padre.

Let's not forget the monkey pee that you seem to think is essential for our success.”

“Not essential,” said the priest. “But it would be extremely helpful. Still . . . it may not prove worth the delay.”

“Delay?” Ross waved a hand dismissively. “I'm as anxious to get to the treasure as any, but we're the only ones with a map. We're the only ones who know how to get to the Isle of Swords . . . right?”

The monk looked away. He said nothing.

Ross let his feet down with a thump. “No . . . no, you must be joking,” said Ross. “You said Thorne was coming after you because you have the only map tattooed right there on your back.”

“Those were not my words.”

“Don't play games, Padre . . . what are you saying?”

“There may be . . . one other,” the monk explained. “You see, the priests in charge of my order have utilized the talents of a small tribe native to the Marquesas Islands in the Pacific. These people are primitive and somewhat superstitious, but they have unequaled skill in the art of tattooing. They were ideal for our needs, but not just for their tattoos. The Marquesans believe that once youths have reached the age of fourteen—the age where innocence ends—evil is the only thing that will come out of their mouths when they speak.

To prevent this, and as a rite of passage into adulthood, the Marquesans clip their tongues and cut their vocal cords.”

Ross winced. “How horrendous.”

“Yes,” said Padre Dominguez. “But you see how this custom suits our need for secrecy?”

“Of course. The natives draw the tattoo, but will never be able to tell anyone where to find the Isle of Swords.”

“That is what the priests of my order have counted on over the years. These obscure islands in the Pacific hide a more obscure tribe who, even if they should be found, are not able to speak. For more than three centuries this arrangement has served us well.”

“But?”

“But someone found the Marquesans. A woman, a female pirate.

We do not know how she discovered this secret or even how she knew where to begin to look. But she found the man who created my tattoo . . . and bribed him with rubies. From memory, he redrew the map for her.”

“Who is this woman?”

“Katarina Thorne.”

Ross banged a fist on the desk and stood up. “Hang me by the yardarm . . . Bartholomew Thorne's wife?! If she has it . . . it won't be long before she hands it over to him.”

“Yes, but we are reasonably certain that Katarina Thorne was killed before she could have given the map to Bartholomew. There were terrible storms in the Pacific that season. She must have perished.

Otherwise, he would not have needed to come looking for me.”

Ross took a deep breath and nodded. “I suppose that makes sense, but then why are we in such a hurr—wait a minute! What if . . . what if she betrayed him? After his first wife died, Bartholomew wasn't exactly civil with women. How do you know Katarina didn't just go to the Isle of Swords herself and cut her husband out of the prize?”

“You are a shrewd man, Declan Ross,” said Padre Dominguez as he turned to leave. “That is why we are in such a hurry to get to the Isle of Swords.”

“Jacques Saint Pierre?” Thorne said, marveling at the name. “So he's thrown in with Declan Ross, has he?”

“It is certain to be so,” said Scully. “My source claims that Ross's brigantine sailed from the eastern coast of Dominica less than three days ago. Jacques Saint Pierre has not returned to what's left of his mill in Misson.”

“And the British?”

“As you know, the British have drawn the most potent measure of their fleet away from the Caribbean. They pursue Ross east of the

Spanish Main and into the Atlantic.” Scully paused, fingering the little spider of whiskers under his lip. “Does this news meet your current needs?”

“Ever the profiteer, eh?” Thorne coughed out a hoarse, hacking laugh. “Go and see Skellick topside. Tell him to double your usual payment.”

Scully stood and bowed. “Thank you, Captain Thorne. I will continue to monitor the British, and I will find you when I have something more to tell.” He left immediately and shut the cabin door behind him.

As soon as Scully was gone, Thorne turned up the flame of the oil lantern on his desk and reached for one of several metal canisters from a rack behind his desk. He unscrewed its cap and let a long roll of parchment fall out onto his desk. He went to work, poring over the sea chart and thinking out loud. “So the British spoiled Ross's party in Dominica, eh? They forced him to flee east . . . but he will not cross the Atlantic and attempt the Isle of Swords without provisions. You've doubled back on the English, haven't you, Ross? But where would you go?”

His scarred finger traced a line south from Dominica. “Saint Vincent,” Thorne muttered. “Barbados . . . Trinidad. No. I think not. The Isle of Swords is rumored to be in northern waters—some say as far north as Portugal. Ross is practical.” Thorne reversed course with his finger and traced north of Dominica, past St. Kitts where Thorne was now, past Saba and Anguilla, and . . . out into the open ocean.

“Where?” His eyes scanned the chart. Then he saw it, and he knew. “The Caicos Islands. Saint Pierre had run a trading operation there, out of an old Dutch fort. Yes, they will go there to drop Saint Pierre off . . . or to get supplies for their journey.” Suddenly,

Thorne's scarred right hand clenched involuntarily like a claw.

Searing pain shot up his arm, and his head pounded.

All at once, it was gone. But his cabin was eerily silent once again. Thorne slowly opened the drawer and looked upon the silver locket.
You've done well, my husband.

Thorne's heart hammered. But he reached into the drawer and removed the locket. He clicked open the locket and stared down at the painted portrait. “Heather?”

I told you Ross would not escape.

“How can . . . how can this be—”

Once you have the map, and then the Treasure of Constantine . . . the sea will be yours. Make them pay.