Isle of Swords (51 page)
When the HMS
Oxford
drifted alongside of the
Raven
, the British met little resistance. Thorne's crew had been thinned by their experiences at sea and on the Isle of Swords. And many had died during the battle. Commodore Blake found Bartholomew Thorne at the helm, his hands on the ship's wheel. He stood as if frozen, even as Blake's men surrounded him.
And discarded at Thorne's feet, the infamous bleeding stick lay soaking in a puddle of seawater. Blake lifted the stave from the deck and held it up as if it were a scorpion. Water droplets, tinged with crimson, ran off the ends of the spikes.
Blake looked at it, his face a mask of disgust.
When Thorne looked upon his bleeding stick, a chilling, dark smile curled at the corner of his mouth. Blake saw in the vanquished captain's glare a murderous cunning so black and ruthless that he stepped backward a pace. Then Blake turned and, with a mighty heave, hurled Thorne's weapon far out into the ocean.
“All secure?” Commodore Blake asked, referring to the other ships from Thorne's decimated fleet.
“We can't be sure, sir,” said Mr. Jordan. “Some of Thorne's vessels may have come out of the crosscurrents far from where we intercepted the
Raven
. But of the ships we engaged, only one got away.”
“What?” said Blake. “How?”
“The schooner, sir,” said Mr. Jordan. “Its sails were down. We thought it dead in the water. But when we boarded the
Raven
, the sails on the schooner flew up. It caught the wind and fled. The
King Richard
and the
Triumph
opened fire, but . . . missed.”
Blake nodded. Bartholomew Thorne had been captured, and that's all that mattered for now.
“What about Ross?” Sir Nigel asked. They turned and stared across the waves to the
Bruce
. “We can't just let him go.”
“I don't see anyone else out there,” said Commodore Blake.
“Do you, Mister Jordan?”
“No, sir,” he replied. “No one at all.”
T
hree weeks had passed since Commodore Blake's fleet sailed for the British fort at New Providence. Bartholomew Thorne and his remaining crew would there await trial and, eventually . . . the gallows. The
Robert Bruce
made sail for Scotland and Ross's beloved Edinburgh. There, Ross and Jacques St. Pierre convalesced under Nubby's care in a small manor home. To pass the time, Anne took Cat to see the sights all over the city. Ramiro had been itching to get back to his shipyard in Sines, but waited until he was convinced Ross was out of the woods to depart. He left the
Bruce
with its new owner and chartered a schooner to Portugal.
“I've got to go out,” Ross said one day. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and began to stand.
“You just lay yourself back down!” Nubby commanded. “Or I'll fetch my spoon!”
“I'm well, Nubs,” he said. “And a nice meat pie from
O'Lordan'sâthat would do me right. Besides, you let Jacques go out a week back.”
“But he wasn't hurt near as bad as you.”
“Nubs, he was almost blown to bits.” Ross put a hand on Nubby's shoulder. “Really . . . I'm fine. And I'll just be gone for a little while.”
Nubby shrugged. He knew his captain would go with or without permission.
“Thanks,” Ross said. He dressed warmly and left the manor home. A cool mist drifted over the cobblestone streets and between the crowded buildings. With some urgency in his step, Ross turned a corner and strode up a hill . . . right past O'Lordan's.
At last he found the gate he was looking for and passed under a wrought-iron arch into a vast cemetery. Trees flourished among the tombstones.
She always loved the trees
, Ross thought as he meandered among the plots.
Then he saw it. The sight of her gravestone constricted Ross's chest. He coughed, and tears trickled into the creases near his eyes.
He knelt in a patch of ferns and laid his head against the stone. “I know what Thorne did, Abigail,” Ross said, rubbing his fingers along the engraved contours of her name. “I'm so sorry I wasn't there to stop him . . . then. The British have him now. And he'll hang for sure.”
He wept quietly for some time, and it seemed years of anguish flowed out of him. The tears eventually began to dry. He lifted his head a little and said, “Anne's well. She has your spirit . . . and your beauty. But she has far too much of my love of the sea in her. I tried, Abigail . . . and we were so close to treasure that would have freed us. But what little I salvaged won't be enough. And the British took the rest. Abigail, . . . ,” he hesitated, “I must still remain a pirate.”
“Now where'd ya get a fool idea like that, mon?” came a voice from behind.
“Stede?” Ross turned and leaped to his feet.
Three figures stood atop the hill above Ross. It was hard to see their faces, for the mist swirled among them. But one of the shadowy beings stood a foot or more taller than the other two. “We just made port,” came a deep voice from the giant.
Ross ran to them. “Stede,” he cried. “Jules, Red Eye! By the grace of the Almighty, you . . . you're alive!” He embraced them each in turn and then backed away. “How?”
“Thorne put me on a schooner,” said Red Eye, a mischievous smile curling. “And see, me and the captain of the vessel had a bit of a quarrel. It seems after the crosscurrents, the crewmen began to disappear one by one. I found old Stede here in nothing but a rowboat.”
“It b' a good thing ya picked me up!” said Stede. “Or the British would have put ya on the bottom!”
“Jules?” Ross cocked an eyebrow. “What happened to you?”
“Thanks to a few of Thorne's former slaves,” Jules replied in his thunderous voice, “I managed to commandeer a ship. Near as I can tell, we came out of the crosscurrents miles from everyone else.”
Stede laughed. “With the British firin' on us, we b' haulin' out of there as fast as the wind would take us. We b' not knowin' what happened with the
Bruce
. So, thinkin' ya might head back to Portugal with Ramiro, we sailed there. Jules and his crew b' havin' the same idea. We met there and figured b'fore we sail back to the
Spanish Main, we might take a look in Edinburgh. Glad we did!
When we saw the
Bruce
, we came close to swimmin' to shore.”
Declan Ross clasped his men in turn on the shoulder. “I can't tell you how much joy you've brought me.”
“And more b'sides,” said Stede. “There'll b' no need for any of us to remain pirates a day longer. The two ships we took from Thorne, they b' plenty heavy with treasure.”
Ross eyed the three men. “How soon can you be ready to set sail?”
“What ya b' thinkin', ya outrageous mon?”
Ross nodded. “Saint Celestine, gentlemen. The treasure belongs to the monks, after all.” Stede, Jules, and Red Eye exchanged worried glances.
Ross grinned. “Though I expect when Cat shows the monks what he brought back from the Isle of Swords, they'll happily part with enough to meet our needs.”
A
few months later, Commodore Blake ushered nine monks into the cavernous receiving room of his hilltop estate.
“Father Gregory,” Blake said with a humble bow. “Welcome to
New Providence.”
“Thank you, Commodore,” the monk replied, lowering his hood. The other eight kept their faces cloaked. “You are kind to provide our passage here.”
“I must admit I was intrigued when I received your letter,” said Blake. “But I suppose Ross and his crew decided against joining us in this meeting after all.”
At that, seven of the monks let their hooded robes fall to the floor. And there before Commodore Blake stood Declan Ross in a new hunter-green kilt, his daughter, Anne, uncomfortable in an elegant evening dress, Jacques St. Pierre attired more or less like the King of France, and Stede, Red Eye, Jules, and Cat. “I stand corrected. I am pleased you were able to make it,” Blake said,
“and I am a man of my word. You and your crew are guests, not prisoners.”
“Now, allow me to introduce you to my lovely bride, Dolphin,” said Blake as a youthful beauty walked into the room. She had crimson hair, porcelain-white skin, and lips like rose petals.
While Blake introduced his guests to Dolphin, Jules and Stede picked up the robes from the floor, folded them, and placed them on a nearby bench.
Father Gregory gestured, and the other man at last revealed his face and head. “This is Father Brun. He is of a special clerical order sent recently to Saint Celestine to help, uh . . . resolve a few matters.”
Pale skin and very light blond hair, intelligent blue eyes that darted side to side restlesslyâa curious-looking man, for a monk, Blake thought. “Welcome to New Providence, Father Brun.”
“You showed remarkable faith, Commodore,” said Father Brun, “agreeing to this meeting. I believe God will do wondrous things through our efforts tonight.”
“Yes . . . well, quite.” Blake felt awkward for a moment, but recovered and said, “It is true we have much to discuss . . . and to planâ”