Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (31 page)

Tom lowered his rapier. Topaz closed his eyes and remained silent. The sail flapped listlessly in the faint breeze and tiny wavelets slapped against the hull. Tom crawled back to his place, laid the sword at his side, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.

And the fourth night passed.

Maurice was the first to wake and find Topaz missing. “Damn,” he muttered. “What the hell happened to Topaz?”

Tom and Slurry bolted awake. The wind had died to a dead calm and the sail hung lifeless against the brilliant blue sky.

“Topaz?” Tom stood and held the mast for balance as the catboat rocked. “Topaz?” The flat, glassy expanse of water and space swallowed his voice. Nothing broke the surface of the blue-green sea.

“Not a trace,” Maurice said, leaning over the side.

Slurry hurriedly shifted his weight to starboard to keep the boat from capsizing. “Blast it, Leakey, sit down!” he shouted. “I can't swim!”

“He gave up,” Tom said bitterly. “Just gave—”

The water exploded right under Slurry's head. Slurry screamed in horror and fell backward. Maurice almost fell out, barely managing to throw his weight to the center of the boat. Tom dropped to his knees and grabbed for his rapier as a wriggling sea snake skewered by a crude spear plopped into the boat, followed a moment later by Topaz, glistening and dripping.

“Shit!” Slurry bawled. “You no-good man-eating son of a bitch! You just scared the living bejesus out of me! Here we was, feeling sorry for you and all, and …” His speech trailed off as he stared at the thrashing gray snake in the bottom of the boat. It was at least six feet long. “What the hell is that thing?”

“Breakfast,” Topaz said, nonchalantly grabbing the snake behind the head with one hand and a few inches down its body with the other. “Cut,” he ordered, holding it toward Maurice.

“We thought you were dead,” Tom said, grinning in relief.

Topaz flung the snake's head into the water, pinned its tail to the gunwale with Maurice's knife, and reached for one of his own. “I cut and drained my wound last night. The pain was great, but when I was finished, I was hungry.” He held the snake so its blood drained into the water. “I told the spirit of my mother's father that if he did not come and carry me away, I would go fishing this morning.”

“That ain't no fish,” Slurry pointed out as the serpent's death throes gradually subsided.

“Maybe not,” Topaz agreed, “but it is food.”

Topaz slit the snake along the belly, cleaned it in the sea, stripped the skin, and cut the carcass into six-inch segments. “Better cooked,” he said, tossing the first chunk to Maurice, “but good enough raw. My people eat many times.”

Maurice snatched his piece out of the air and began to eat immediately. Tom followed suit. When he bit into the gray meat he found it had a not unpleasant smoky taste.

“I don't know,” Slurry said, hastily dropping his piece on the seat next to him. “Eating snake don't seem Christian. I may take a drink from time to time and I know I ain't perfect, but I'd rather starve than lose my soul. A God-fearin' man don't eat no devil serpent.”

“You'd eat a piece of pig that's been in a barrel of brine for six months,” Maurice said, spitting out a bone, “but not a fresh snake? That's stupid.”

Tom made his way to the stern, skewered Slurry's piece with his knife, and peered into the mariner's eyes. “Slurry,” he said, the voice of reason, “you have a point. But I want to ask you something.”

“I ain't gonna eat no snake.”

“I'm not asking you to. What I want to know is, are you baptized?”

“I am. My ma took me down to the water and dunked me herself.”

“You're sure it took—your ma not being a preacher?”

Slurry's faith couldn't be shaken. “Baptizin's baptizin'. Don't matter who does the dunkin'.”

“Good. Then you do believe in the power of baptism and the changes it can work?”

“Of course.”

Tom dipped the piece of snake in the sea. “I baptize thee beef,” he proclaimed in his most stentorian tone, “in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen.”

Slurry stared at Tom, at the snake-become-beef, at Tom again, then at the meat. “Kind of determined to keep me alive, aren't you?” he finally said.

“That's right,” Tom said. “
Bon appétit.
”

“I gotta admit, that beef looks pretty good right now, raw or not,” Slurry said, gingerly removing it from Tom's knife. “Thank ye, I guess.” And without looking at the others, he said a silent prayer and began to eat.

The wind returned, as it always must, on the fifth night, and brought with it rain from the northeast. Hour after hour, they kept the bow to the wind and rode out the storm. At last, the gale died to a stiff and shifting wind and the last of the clouds swept by, leaving the sky clean and sparkling with stars. Slowly, the wind steadied, and while the others slept, Tom sat at the tiller and guided the small boat over the waves—and toward land. Just as slowly, as he watched, new light from the east blended with the starlight and edged aside the velvet hold of night.

From the east.… At least a hundred miles to the east, his sons slept while the sun rose. Did they wait for him? Just three years old when Jenny died, they had essentially forgotten her soon enough. Did they remember him? Were they old enough now to understand he would move heaven and earth to have them at his side? Once he had thought he could never love another human being as much as he loved Jenny, but the boys had taught him that love knew no such limits. And then Adriana had come along to teach him that he was alive, even if Jenny was dead, and that his love for her in no way diminished his love for Jenny.

If only he had spoken the words!
I love you, Adriana
. Was that so hard? Did she know anyway? She had seen his amulet in her dreams and had predicted his arrival. Perhaps, wherever she was, she heard him at that moment. Perhaps, if he concentrated.… Determined, he clutched the amulet in his fist.
Adriana. I love you, Adriana. I will be with you. Not long now. Not long
—

The thought broke off abruptly. His breath catching in his throat, he shielded his eye and saw … a speck of white in the first budding rays of golden sunlight. Spellbound, he watched the speck grow and become a swirling, diving sea gull that spilled its screeching song over the empty sea. The sweetest song a man had ever heard: the song of land.

“Virgin Gorda,” Slurry said as the island rose out of the sea three hours later. “The Fat Virgin.”

“What happened to Tortola?” Tom asked.

Slurry pointed to the west. “Over there. It's hell get-tin' there from here in this thing, though, 'cause of the currents.”

“What are our chances of finding a way off?”

“'Bout the same as on Tortola,” Slurry said, receiving a confirming nod from Topaz. “Plenty of food an' fresh water on both islands. Ships pull in from time to time, though who or where is a matter of luck. Best places are on the south side, but who knows? I'd say that, since we're here, we land, rest up for a day or so, and then decide what we want to do.”

It made sense. By nightfall, Maurice had a fire going and the smell of roasting turtle filled the air. Fresh water from a stream plunging down a nearby hillside tasted better than the rarest wine. And for dessert, the sweet soft meat of green coconuts brought smiles before they all drifted off to their first good sleep in five nights.

Oil pressed from coconuts soothed their blistered skin. Plenty of water, fresh fruits, meat, and sleep restored their strength. On the morning of their third day ashore, they pushed the catboat into the water and worked their way west, stopping at sundown to camp near the western tip of the island. “We'll try the north side tomorrow,” Slurry said. “If there's nothin' there, maybe we ought to think of Tortola, or even St. John or St. Thomas.”

The wait was beginning to get on Tom's nerves. That night, after the others had fallen asleep, he stole away from the campsite and, rapier in hand, walked down to the water's edge. There, feet embedded in the cool, moist sand, he slashed the air, thrust and parried with a vengeance until his chest and shoulders glistened with sweat.

There's Bliss! Run him through, dance away. Marines? Hah! Dodge, leap, thrust once, twice, again and again until.… Well, well. If it isn't Sir Theodotus. On your guard, old man. I've come for my sons. I'll beat past your blade and thrust home!

The fantasy remained unfinished, ended prematurely by a faint but distinct rumble. Poised in a position of full thrust, Tom froze and strained to hear.
No, not thunder. No clouds in the sky. Again?
Every nerve taut, he listened without moving until his muscles protested and he sank, exhausted, to his knees. Nothing. Nothing but the wind and the endless crash of breakers.

But he
had
heard.

“It's possible,” Slurry admitted the next morning. He studied the crude map of the northern side of the island he'd drawn in the sand and poked a twig in two indentations that indicated bays. “A cannon shot here or here … well, the wind could carry it this far.”

“Let's get goin', then,” Maurice said. “What the hell we waitin' for?”

“To think,” Topaz said, not budging. “Men shoot guns for two reasons. To signal or to kill.” He looked at Tom. “Which did you hear?”

“How the hell should I know?” Tom asked, peeved.

Topaz drew a line parallel to the coast. “This is wind.” He held out the twig to Tom. “You draw the line of how we get from here to there without them seeing us—just in case maybe they're not so friendly.”

“He's sure got a point,” Maurice said. “Last I looked, we didn't have nothin' to shoot back with.”

A mile to the northeast, a point jutted out into the water. “The first bay's the other side of that?” Tom asked, pointing to a low ridge.

“Yup.”

“And the next one's how far?”

“Two, three miles up the beach, I'd guess.”

“Good. See what you think about this, then.…”

It was late afternoon by the time they checked out the first bay, found it empty, sailed past it, and landed out of sight of the second bay. “We ain't gonna walk that shoreline, are we?” Slurry asked apprehensively.

Scoured by the nearly constant trade winds and heavy wave action, the coastline was an inhospitable jumble of rocks and boulders and coral that would require hours to negotiate. “That way,” Topaz said, pointing to the ridge that separated them from the next bay. “Jungle not too bad, I think. Maybe one hour to top.”

“Well, time's a-wastin',” Maurice said. He slung the thong that held their water jugs over his shoulder, then pulled his arkansas toothpick out of his boot and stuck it in his belt. “It's your kind of country, Topaz. Lead the way.”

By the time they reached the top and flopped down on the jungle floor for a rest, they were soaked with sweat. “Great view,” Tom snorted, gazing in dismay at the wall of green that confronted them. “Any more bright ideas?”

Topaz tested a vine and began to climb. “Only one,” he said. “Keep going to the very top.”

Maurice watched Topaz until he disappeared in the foliage, then helped himself to some water and passed the jug. “I'll tell you one thing for sure,” he said. “This ain't nothin' like Tennessee or Kentucky. Nothin' at all. You can forget that ashes to ashes and dust to dust business. All that's gonna be left of me is a puddle of sweat.”

“I got dibs on your boots when you go,” Slurry said, inspecting what remained of his. “Mine ain't worth much more'n a puddle o'—”

Silently sliding down the vine, Topaz appeared suddenly at Slurry's side.

“Jesus God, Topaz! Can't you—”

“Stow it!” Tom ordered curtly. “Well?”

Topaz's smile revealed rows of pearly pointed teeth. “I have found your cannon.”

The descent was precipitous and dangerous, and became more so as the light faded. At home in the jungle, Topaz went ahead to reconnoiter while, far behind him, Tom, Maurice, and Slurry followed the trail he marked.

“Stop.” Topaz materialized in front of them and spoke quietly. “One hundred feet,” he said, pointing behind him, “to the beach. Fifteen men. Three tied. Six went off just now for water before dark. Six watching. Their ship is in the bay. French make, six or eight guns. The captain is one of the prisoners.”

Silently, they crept to the edge of the vegetation and peered out. “So who'd they shoot at?” Maurice wondered.

“I went that far,” Topaz said, pointing to a mammoth piece of driftwood, “and listened. One of the captain's men is still aboard. He fired at the mutineers last night and they're waiting until tonight to try to take the ship again. The new captain, the one with the hat with the red feathers, has a crew but no ship.”

“Pirates?” Tom asked.

Topaz nodded.

“Anybody mind tellin' me how we got so lucky?” Maurice asked dryly.

“The question is,” Tom said thoughtfully, “how are we going to get those three loose and get to the boat?”

“Why the bound-up three?” Slurry asked. “Hell, we go with the twelve—”

“Plenty of reasons,” Tom said. “One, I don't want to sail with mutineers of any kind. Two, the others outnumber us. Three, how am I supposed to pay them? Four, if we free him, the captain will owe us. And five, the odds are good.”

Slurry snorted in disgust. “You call twelve to four good odds?”

“Six to four if we hurry,” Tom pointed out.

“So? Them guns they're carryin'—”

“The hell with the guns,” Tom said. “We have something better.”

“If it's luck you're talkin' about, forget it. You can count me out.”

“I'm talking about surprise,” Tom said.