Isle of Swords (50 page)

“Aye, Captain!” Ramiro yelled as he sprinted from the helm.

“Full sails!” Cat bellowed. The rest of the crew, all eighteen of them, flew into action, climbing the ratlines, pulling halyards, and raising sails.

The massive swell rolled up behind the
Bruce
just as the southerly prevailing wind grabbed the sails. The ship sprang forward as if shot from a cannon. The
Bruce
sailed after the
Raven
at a speed few sailors had ever experienced on a ship that size.

“He's gaining on us, sir!” said Skellick.

“Who's gaining on us?!” Thorne rasped. He stared off the stern, but night had fallen and all he could see were tall square sails.

“It's Ross's ship,” his quartermaster replied.

“Ross?” Thorne stared. “He's dead!”

“Well, someone's in his ship and right at our heels!”

“Crosscurrents ahead!” someone shouted as the ship rocked to its side.

Thorne looked out and saw the same wild phenomena he'd witnessed just the night before—the same perilous seas that had decimated his fleet. Of course, the men who survived were his best captains. If half of them survived, he'd have enough treasure to create his fleet. “Batten down the hatches, lads!” Thorne yelled.

“But, sir,” said Skellick, “what about Ross?”

“It's not ROSS!!”

“Uh, sorry, Captain. What should we do concerning the ship behind us?”

“Let him come!” Thorne yelled lustily. “When we get to the other side of the crosscurrents, the fleet will turn and blow him out of the water!”

I don't think so,
Stede thought. While Thorne was busy looking at the
Bruce
, Stede had slipped around the side of the quarterdeck.

He ran to the port rail and grabbed an axe from a pirate climbing the ratline. “Aye!” the man said, but as he turned, Stede hit the man so hard in the jaw that the man flew off the ship and disappeared into the churning sea.

Staying low, Stede took the axe and ran across the deck to the mainmast. Then he waited.

The
Raven
was nearly out of the crosscurrents. Thorne checked the stern. No sign of the ship that had been following them. He stared out off the bow. They were pointed almost due south now. He lifted his spyglass and saw something white, but massive rolling swells kept getting in the way.
What is that?
he wondered.

“Sir, look!” Thorne turned to where his quartermaster was pointing. He watched in horror as the Spanish carrack carrying the most treasure was slammed by a wave, turned sideways, and pushed into one of the bottomless black gulfs. Another wave crashed on top of it, sealing its fate.

“Noooo!” Thorne screamed.

“Skellick,” Thorne shouted. “We don't want to—” The mainsail on the aft mast fell from its spar. “Get the sail!” he bellowed. “Hoist the sail!” As the ship rose up on a huge wave, Thorne looked again to the south. This time, he thought he saw several white objects scattered east to west across the horizon.

Then the mainsail on the mizzenmast went down. “What is happening?!” Thorne cried out. “This is madness!”

The
Raven
was still able to maneuver enough to stay out of harm's way, but just barely. In vain, the crew raced around trying to get the sail back up just as the mainsail on the foremast came down.

Stede thought it dreadfully funny how Thorne's men scrambled to try to raise the sails. Every time they grabbed a rope, they found it had been severed and was of no use. Stede had been busy with his axe. It was too bad, Stede thought. Too bad he wouldn't be able to enjoy the victory over Thorne. By cutting down the mainsails, Stede had crippled the ship. Still in the crosscurrents, it would no doubt be smashed to pieces and take everyone, Stede included, to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Bartholomew Thorne pushed Skellick aside and took the helm himself. He saw a giant wave coming from far to starboard. Thorne spun the wheel frantically, but without the mainsails, the ship wouldn't respond. But just as the deadly curling wave approached the starboard side of the ship, another swell, this one mountainous and wide, drove under the
Raven
from behind. As this wave rolled through, the sea began to calm. It was like a great rolling pin on lumpy dough. Thorne could not believe his good fortune. He looked left and right and saw several of his ships, galleons, frigates, and a schooner. The great chasms had closed. The waves grew less and less. The crosscurrent was gone, and the
Raven
was safe.

“We've done it!” Thorne yelled with maniacal joy.

But before anyone else could speak, flashes lit the sea from the south. A cannonball whooshed overhead. When the last swell sank into the sea, tall masts rose up across the horizon. Each had full square sails. Thorne lifted his spyglass and saw the red cross of St.

George on flags flying high above five different ships.
The British!

“Come about!” Thorne screamed. “Fire the port cannons!”

The British warships fanned out, firing at will. A cannonball crashed into the center of the main deck. One of Thorne's men went cartwheeling into the air and overboard. Another shot blew apart a cannon bay belowdecks. Still another struck the stern.

Stede had hidden himself under a tarp when the shooting started. The last cannonball had gone right over his head.
I think it b' about time for me to leave
, Stede thought
.
He sprinted through the men scattering on the deck and found what he needed. He took his axe and cut the two lines that secured a small rowboat. As it fell, he dove in and rode it the rest of the way to the water.

“The British?” Nubby yelled. “Where did they come from?”

Declan Ross opened his eyes briefly and began to laugh.

Cat closed on the
Raven
's stern and then gave the order, “Fire starboard cannons!” There were only ten men on the gun deck, so they could only fire a few of the cannons. But it was enough.

Thorne watched with horror as Ross's ship appeared behind the
Raven
. “Fire the chasers!” he yelled, referring to the two cannons he had on the stern just above the waterline. The command came too late. The
Bruce
fired, missing with two shots, but the third tore violently into the back of the
Raven
. The poop deck and the rear cabins exploded, and debris showered the quarterdeck and the helm.

With the explosion, Bartholomew Thorne had fallen to his knees.

He stood now and looked at the back of his ship. The rear cabins, including his captain's quarters, had been ravaged by the cannonball and, in its aftermath, the fires. Nothing remained of his quarters.

The fires once again had taken his Heather away.