Isle of Swords (3 page)

“Nay, Cap'n.” Nubs frowned dejectedly and beat a hasty retreat.

Declan Ross leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. He shook his head.
Let's see . . . the
Wallace
is about to fall apart in shark-infested waters, the only place close enough where we can ground the ship and make repairs is in the territory of the most ruthless man alive, and, oh yes, we're just about out of food. At least it can't get any worse than
—
SLAM!!
Ross's cabin door flew open and in stomped a lass with flaming red hair barely concealed beneath a black bandanna. At her side was a silver cutlass. “FATHER!! You have got to let me sign!!”

“We've been through this before, Anne,” he replied, rubbing his temples.
So much for it not getting any worse
.

“Well, I don't care what the crew thinks about having a woman aboard! I'm here, aren't I? I've brought no bad luck, have I?”

Ross started to say something about the lack of wind and their diet of rats, but bit his tongue. “What's this about, Anne?”

“It's Henrik and Jules—they follow me around everywhere just so they can give me something to do!”

“Henrik? Jules?”

“This time!” Anne shouted, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other waving a finger in the air. “Yesterday, it was Red Eye.

Cromwell the day before. Just about every one of the crew—they treat me like some kind of peasant! Even Stede made me go fix him a bowl of lobscouse! You need to let me go on the register—sign the articles!”

“No, Anne,” he replied, trying to hold his temper in check. “I promised your mother—”

“But she's not here!”

“Anne, that's enough.”

“But I can sail!” she pleaded. Her hazel eyes seemed to turn deep blue as tears flooded in. “I can navigate. I can do all the rigging. I'm better with the sword than almost any—”

“I said NO!!” He slammed his fist on the desk, sending his mug skidding off the side where it crashed on the floor.

Anne's lower lip trembled. She turned abruptly and marched out of her father's cabin. But just before she slammed the door, he heard her mutter, “I'd be a better pirate than you are.”

Captain Declan Ross stared at the door. “That's what I'm afraid of, Anne. That's what I'm afraid of.”

4
CAREENING

A
t last!” Ross exclaimed, a smile spreading across his face. He slapped Stede's shoulder and strode across the main deck to the forecastle.

Ross stood proudly on the deck and looked out over the bow. He put his hands on his hips and muttered, “I'm glad we made it. The wind up and quit on us.”

“Aw, I've seen us through warse!” Stede called after him.

“Made it?” barked a broom-shaped man who clambered up beside his captain and squinted. “I don't see nothin'.”

“Your lights gone dead, have they, Midge?” Ross leaned in close and pointed out over the sea. “Land, you half-blind laggard! The cays. We'll be kissing the sand in an hour. Don't you see?”

Mr. Midgely stared, a dark scowl forming on his stubbly face.

Slowly, a wide grin appeared, revealing a set of yellow teeth, most rotten, leaning or poking out of his gums at odd angles. “I see 'em! I see 'em, Cap'n!” Midge exclaimed, breathing each word into Ross's face. “Little-bitty things, they is, but I see 'em!”

“Your breath, man!” Ross exclaimed, ducking quickly away from the carpenter and his rotten teeth. “Worse than usual—oh, that's horrible. What've you been eating?”

“Rats,” he replied proudly. “I found a couple of 'em ol' Nubby missed. They were smashed under a barrel, and I—”

“I don't think I want to hear any more,” Ross said, moving quickly down the forecastle stairs. It was a vain effort to get the foul reek out of his nose. Ross feared that Midge would one day catch his death from something he ate—which was a shame because the man knew how to fix a ship. “Get your team down to the hold and get whatever lumber you can salvage. And, Mister Midgely . . .”

“Cap'n?”

“At least cook the rats next time.”

Ross turned to his quartermaster, who stood at the wheel. “Stede, bring us in slowly!”

“We don't have much choice about that, eh!” Stede called back.

Ross looked up at the sails billowing ever so slightly. It was a wonder they'd made it to the cays at all with such a mild breeze. He shook his head and ran a hand lovingly along the rail of his ship. The
William Wallace
had done them all proud over the years. He'd bought the hundred-year-old brigantine from Ramiro de Ferro Goncalo, an old shipwright in Portugal, for fifty pounds of gold ingots and a cask of salted pork. It was a good deal—for Ramiro anyway. Most pirates would have taken the ship by force, but that's where Ross drew the line. You could take a man's gold. You could take a man's silver. You could even take some of a man's food. But you never took a man's ship.

Next to his daughter, Anne, and his close friend, Stede, his ship was the best thing in his life. The
Wallace
was well armed, fast, and maneuverable. But the
Wallace
was also old. As the ship turned slightly and began his drift run to shore, Ross wondered just how long he could keep the
Wallace
afloat.

“Tie-down!” Ross yelled. Quickly, everyone but Stede and Captain Ross grabbed hold of a rail or a strand of rigging and sat low on the deck. They all braced for the impact of the ship's bow as it plowed into the sandy bottom, waiting to see which new sailor would be cart-wheeled overboard during the jolt. But it didn't come. Instead, they felt just a few light bounces, and the
William Wallace
came to rest.

“That's all?” asked Cromwell, the ship's bosun.

Anne laughed. “No wonder, with such little wind.”

“Great,” Ross muttered. He looked over the bow and saw they were parked still thirty yards from the shore.

“Guess we'll just have to wait until low tide to start unloading,” said Cromwell, who never saw a job that couldn't wait.

Stede's gigantic hands clamped down on Cromwell's shoulders from behind. Lifting Cromwell off the deck, he asked, “Permission to throw this outrageous mon overboard, Cap'n?”

“What?” Cromwell's arms and legs flailed helplessly. “Stede, put me down. What'd I do? Put me down.”

Ross glared at his bosun being held by Stede a foot off the deck.

“You have evidently forgotten that these little cays are Thorne's isles. If you want to wait around for him or one of his friendly mates, be my guest. We will careen the
Wallace
and get out of here as fast as we can. And . . . we will unload this ship right NOW, beginning— I think—with the biggest hunk of dead weight aboard.”

“No, Cap'n,” Cromwell pleaded. “I just wasn't thinking. You wouldn't take—”

“Mister Stede?” said Ross.

“Aye, sir?”

“Permission granted.”

“Nooooo!” In one fluid motion, Stede hurled Cromwell up and over the bow's rail. His arms and legs pinwheeling, he fell like a stone and landed in the turquoise water with a horrendous splash.

The captain turned to his crew. “Anyone else want to wait for low tide to unload?”

Two hours later, the
William Wallace
was nearly light enough—and the tide was nearly low enough—to begin turning the ship on his side to make repairs. Led by a remarkably tireless bosun Cromwell, the crew had secured the hatches and carried most of the stores to shore.

From Ross's vantage point onshore, the cay appeared to be a large crescent. The white sand stretched more than a hundred yards from the surf to the lush copse of palms and other tropical vegetation. The tree line gradually curled toward the sea on the eastern part of the island. Excellent cover—a perfect place to careen a ship.

But that worried Ross. He couldn't imagine as clever a pirate as Thorne leaving a cay like this one unwatched for long. “Get a move on, lads!”

Midge was already at work, chiseling barnacles off the exposed sections of the hull. Nubby had discovered an ample supply of iguanas scurrying over the white sands and up the coarse palm trunks.

With visions of stew stirring in his head, he flung himself all over the beach after the big green lizards. The captain and Stede busied themselves securing and testing the lines they would use to pull the

Wallace
on his side. Everyone seemed to be busy doing something important—everyone, that is, but Anne.

The captain's daughter sat on the edge of a pile of driftwood and carved a piece of yellow coral with a very sharp dagger. She'd always enjoyed that, and she was quite good at it. Rings, bracelets, even figurines—but always decorated with something dangerous: snakes, thorny vines, or sharks. Anne was especially proud of this latest creation: a ferocious Bengal tiger with bared fangs and an outstretched paw. As good as the new carving was, Anne couldn't bear to just sit there while everyone else had pirate things to do.

With an exasperated sigh, Anne stood, sheathed her dagger at her waist, and put the coral tiger in a pouch around her neck. She scanned the activity around the ship and watched how her father doted on his crew. Those scallywags meant more to him than his own flesh and blood. She kicked up a mound of white sand and turned her back.

Her eyes followed the tree line, the palms, the divi-divi trees, and the . . .
wait a minute!
Under the canopy of wide palm leaves, she noticed a familiar shadowy bunch, hanging down like a gray chandelier.
Plantains!

Anne charged over to Captain Ross. “Father, I think those palms over there are plantains. Can I go look?”

“Plantains?” Ross glanced at Nubby, who was still busy chasing iguanas. “If you're right, you might just save the lives of the whole crew. Go ahead, but . . .” He glanced into the shadows under the canopy of palms. “Take Jules with you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” said Ross. “But if those are plantains, two of you can carry a lot more back than just one.” It was a weak excuse, Ross knew. He just hoped she'd buy it.

Anne frowned at her father.
He never lets me go off alone!