Bjorn stood tall and grinned. “Not so easily, outlander!” he barked. His axe came on again swiftly. One slash to Thorne’s gut, and then back across near his chin. Thorne leaped one attack and batted away the other, but Bjorn threw a mighty punch with his free hand, connecting with Thorne’s jaw and knocking him onto his back. The crowd roared.
Thorne rose quickly and checked his periphery to measure his distance from the wall of spikes. He had about six feet behind him, but that was all. Bjorn came on again, and his axe crashed down. Thorne blocked with his bleeding stick, making sure to catch the haft with his own. Again and again, Bjorn chopped, trying to strike Thorne’s weapon with the blade and break it asunder. But each time, Thorne moved inside and forced the wood to strike wood. Bjorn grew angry and unleashed a savage chop. When Thorne blocked it, the iron blade of the axe snapped off and whizzed by Thorne’s ear. Thorne had a brief advantage. He swung his bleeding stick at Bjorn’s midsection, but the warrior dodged backward. Thorne swung again at his enemy’s stomach but followed it with a powerful kick. The blow connected with the Viking’s gut and sent Bjorn stumble-stepping backward to within a few feet of the spikes. He stopped easily in time, glanced over his shoulder at the spikes, and laughed.
The crowd grew restless, for they had not expected the battle to take so long. They cheered Bjorn on and yelled insults at his smaller enemy. Bjorn reached down and picked up a long spear. Thorne recognized the trouble coming. With the spear, Bjorn had tremendous reach and would seek to drive Thorne into the spikes. But Thorne had his own attack that his opponent would never expect. He just needed the right opportunity.
As expected, Bjorn thrust the spear at Thorne. He dodged and parried, never backing up but moving left to right in a circle. Bjorn’s skill with the spear was considerable, and he began to press in on Thorne without fear. He jabbed high as if he might ram the spearhead into Thorne’s skull, but the moment he missed, he whirled the opposite end of the spear around and cracked it across Thorne’s shoulder. Thorne rolled sideways, but not shallow enough. When he stood, one of the spikes tore through his clothing and ripped down his back.
The pain burned as if a branding iron had seared his back. Thorne growled. Moving quickly he pressed a sliding latch near the end of his bleeding stick and turned the spiked head counterclockwise. As Bjorn was charging, the spiked head of Thorne’s weapon came free. It dropped nearly to the ground, attached to the handle by a length of chain. Thorne began to whirl the mace-like weapon at his side.
The sharp tip of Bjorn’s spearhead grazed Thorne’s shoulder, but Thorne swung his weapon around and caught Bjorn solidly in the middle of his back. If it had not been for the chain mail, Thorne would have torn loose a chunk of his enemy’s flesh. As it was, the blow was swift and hard. Bjorn groaned, arched his back, and turned to face Thorne. The crowd chanted in a frenzy above.
The temptation grew for the Raukar champion to bull-rush the enemy who had wounded him. But Bjorn was no amateur, and he was no fool. He knew that momentum in the Bearpit was a dangerous—and perhaps, deadly—force. The plan crystallized in his mind, and Bjorn knew just what to do. Keeping the spearhead way out in front, Bjorn came after Thorne. He jabbed at Thorne high, then low, keeping Thorne moving backward and waiting for him to counter. At last, Thorne began to swing his flail weapon again. Bjorn dodged and ducked and was rewarded for his patience. Thorne swung his bleeding stick high overhead, and Bjorn blocked by holding his spear horizontally with both hands. The heavy head of Thorne’s weapon wrapped itself around the shaft of the spear. Bjorn summoned all of his superior strength and jerked the spear backward, wrenching the bleeding stick from Thorne’s hands. Only . . . Thorne did not let go.
Instead, Thorne leaped and let Bjorn’s strength propel him up and over his enemy’s head. Thorne released the handle of his weapon and dropped down behind the stunned Raukar warrior. Thorne drove a thunderous kick between Bjorn’s shoulder blades, and Bjorn careened forward—into the spikes. The raucous Bearpit fell as silent as a mausoleum. Bartholomew Thorne untangled his bleeding stick from his enemy’s spear and then stepped into the rope loop.
He was lifted out of the Bearpit, and the chamber around him filled with furtive whispers. Some wept for Bjorn and uttered curses at the outlander, but many more spoke fearfully. Some pointed to the mural on the dome. One warrior said, “See how he wields his mace. He is a messenger from Tyr!”
When Thorne stepped off the rope, he received his pistols from a thunderstruck Guthrum and his coat from a grinning Mr. Teach. He then turned to face Hrothgar and Lady Fleur. “Bjorn was a magnificent warrior,” Thorne said. “We might have used such as he as we sail to conquer the Atlantic.”
Tears ran angrily down Lady Fleur’s blood red cheeks. She looked as if she might scream, but Hrothgar laid a hand on her shoulder. He stood, and his great chest heaved as he spoke. “Bjorn died valiantly,” he said. “The Valkyries will bear him to Valhalla.” His eyes seemed to gaze right through Thorne into a realm that no one else could see. But he blinked, and his back straightened. “The Raukar have hoped for such a day as this for six hundred years. Long have we prepared for the day when we might burst forth from seclusion and reclaim what has been stolen from us.”
“Lord Hrothgar,” said Thorne, letting the chain of his weapon fall a link at a time into the handle, “today is that day.”
Hrothgar nodded, slowly at first, then with greater and greater conviction. The warriors in the chamber began to pound their fists to their chests and stamp their feet. They began to sing in their language, and even to Mr. Teach and the other sailors who knew nothing of that tongue, it sounded like an anthem or a call to arms.
Hrothgar raised his arms for silence and said to Thorne, “To do what you propose, we must wage the war of all wars. The British have become a force to be reckoned with.”
Thorne screwed the spiked head back onto his bleeding stick and said, “I have a plan for the British.”
10
CHASING GHOSTS
Thorne’s gone back to Dominica?” said Ross.
Stede’s only reply was a long, exasperated sigh. His hands never left the ship’s wheel, and he stared straight ahead at the sparkling blue sea.
“If this wind keeps up, we could make it to Roseau by sundown.” Ross wrung his beard between thumb and fingers and stared at his quartermaster. “Well, are you going to answer me?”
“Declan,” said Stede, “what do ya want from me, mon? For the last six months, we b’ sailing all over the Caribbean. Trinidad, Rogue’s Cay, Death’s Head Island—we been to them all and not a sign of that outrageous mon! We b’ wasting time and provisions.”
“It is not a waste,” Ross argued. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Thorne is still out there somewhere. And we have to—”
Stede interrupted. “Do ya want to know where we can b’ finding Bartholomew Thorne? On New Providence, that b’ where.”
“But the British have rebuilt the fort,” said Ross, puzzled. “Why would he—”
Stede shook his head. “Have ya no sense, mon? I said New Providence because that b’ where Thorne’s body lies—in the shallows or strung across a blasted reef. The wave took him, Declan. And we best b’ looking after other concerns . . . rather than chasing ghosts.”
Ross retied the green bandana around his forehead. “Stede, my friend,” he began, his voice tight and words clipped. “We’ve sailed together a long time. Through storm and cannon fire . . . you’ve always trusted me. I need you to trust me now.”
“I b’ trusting the real Declan Ross,” Stede said. “But ya have not been yerself, mon. And since we left Anne and Cat with the monks, ya b’ warse.”
“Blast it, Stede!” Ross smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. “The sea did not take Bartholomew Thorne. He’s alive. I don’t know how I know. I just do.”
The two old friends gritted their teeth and looked away from each other. For several awkward moments neither said a thing. Mumbling something about not having enough
herbs for the stew, Nubby climbed up the ladder to the quarterdeck. But when he saw the smoldering look on the captain’s face, he quickly disappeared back down the ladder.
“Look,” said Ross, “I know I’ve been hard on you and the crew. I know we’re all worn down to the edge. But think of Abigail. Think of Midge and Cromwell. Their blood—and that of hundreds of others—is on Thorne’s hands. If there’s a chance he’s still out there, we’ve got to find him.”
Stede nodded, but said nothing.
“Just sail us to Dominica,” Ross implored. “Then I’ll give us all a nice long break.”
Stede’s dark brow lowered, and he turned to face his captain. “Not good enough,” he said. “I’ll sail us to Roseau, but then ya b’ needin’ to give up this mad chase once and for all. No more talking about Thorne, no more goin’ to his old haunts—ya hear? No more of it. Oh, and we b’ take that nice long break too. Antigua’s nice this time of year. Them’s my terms, Declan.”
“I’ll take them,” Ross said, and the two shook on it. “But, Stede . . . if we do get word of Thorne . . . if we do find him . . .”
Stede sputtered out a laugh. “Then, mon, I b’ sailing with ya through a hurricane to catch him . . . if that b’ what it takes.”
The wind hadn’t stayed quite as strong, so the Robert Bruce was still several hours from Dominica as the sun began to set. “A sail!” called Kalik from the crow’s-nest. “There be a sail southeast!” Kalik had many talents, but his sharp vision earned him the job of lookout. “Captain?” Mr. Hack called from the deck.
Ross lowered his spyglass. “A galleon,” he said. “It looks French. Let’s go get him.”
“Aye, sir!” Hack flexed his forearms and cracked his knuckles loud enough for Ross to hear it up on the quarterdeck. Then Hack was gone, barking orders for more sail and for men to get to the cannons.
Red Eye was running for the hatch when Ross called down, “Red Eye, tell Jacques I need him up here.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Red Eye.
“And you’ll handle the cannon decks, won’t you?”
Red Eye grinned and disappeared below deck. If it came to a fight, Ross hoped that Red Eye wouldn’t get too carried away. The sixty-gun Robert Bruce was a potent weapon in the hands of a skilled artillery man. Red Eye was as skilled as they came—lethal more often than not—and Ross wanted to question the crew of the ship they were chasing, not watch them burn and sink below the surface. That was why, most times, Ross preferred Jacques St. Pierre to oversee the cannons. Of course, allowing Jacques to work with explosives was another kind of risk.
The Bruce’s sails filled, and the ship quickly ate up the distance between it and the galleon. “Him b’ running,” said Stede. “Him b’ one foolish mon.”
“Where is Saint Pierre?” Ross asked.
“Here!” A curly head of dark hair appeared at the ladder. St. Pierre, wearing a gentleman’s frock coat and a tricorn hat, clambered the rest of the way up. He landed atop the quarterdeck and gave a slight bow. “Did you call, mon capitaine?”
“Quite awhile ago, as I recall,” said Ross. “What took you so long?”
“I am sorry, but I had to convince Red Eye not to load thirty cannons.”
“Thirty?” Ross exclaimed. “We’re not storming Paris!”
“Of course, I know this,” replied Jacques. “But Red Eye, he is—how you say—ridiculous! He wants to blow the ship out of the water. But I used my extraodinary negotiating skills and changed his mind.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Twenty cannons.”
Ross shook his head. The galleon continued to try to run, but it was heavy, loaded down with some merchandise, perhaps gold. Another time and Declan Ross would have been licking his lips at the prospect of looting this fat vessel. But not this time. “Raise the standard!” Ross yelled.
The wolf and claymore rose high up on the mast. Every time Ross saw it, pride swelled within. Stede, caught in the lust of the chase, grinned like a schoolboy. But the chase would not last much longer. No sooner had the Bruce’s flag gone up than the galleon lowered its sails and slowed to a crawl. Soon it had stopped altogether.
Stede brought the Bruce up alongside. “Red Eye!” Ross called. “Have the cannons ready if they try anything!”
“Aye, Captain!”
Ross went to the rail on the quarterdeck. He saw the name of the vessel. “Le Vichy,” he said to himself. He turned to St. Pierre. “That sounds—”
“Oui, it is French.”
“Hmmm,” Ross muttered. “If they do not understand, I may need you to translate.”
Then, using the most commanding voice he could muster, Ross called to the men on the other ship. “Captain and crew of the Vichy, you will turn your cannons and prepare to be boarded!” Ross watched with satisfaction as men on the other deck began to scurry about like ants.
Jules and Mr. Hack hauled the gangplanks over and bridged the gap between the two vessels. Declan left the ship in Stede’s capable hands and led a boarding party including Jules, Jacques St. Pierre, and Hack. When Ross stepped onto the deck, he stopped short. In all his years as a pirate, he’d never seen anything quite like what he faced now.
The whole crew of the galleon was assembled on deck in four very neat rows. The first two rows of sailors were all kneeling with their arms behind them as if tied. Two rows of men stood behind those kneeling. Their hands were not bound, but each man held some kind of merchandise or treasure: gold and silver coins, candlestick holders, silverware, spices, jewelry—even sacks of grain or sugar. Ross gawked at them and strode onto the deck, and any man he approached instantly shouted, “Je me rends, Je me rends!”
Ross looked at his explosives expert. “Jacques?”
“They are surrendering,” Jacques replied.
A commotion broke out behind the back row. Two of the French sailors grappled fiercely and rolled on the deck. They shouted at each other and growled like dogs. Ross again looked to Jacques. “What is that all about?” Ross asked.
“They are fighting,” St. Pierre said tersely.
“Thank you for that obvious information,” Ross scowled. “I can see that much. What are they fighting about?”
“Sacre bleu!” Jacques spat and then muttered, “It seems they are fighting over who gets to surrender first.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” said Ross. “Jacques, tell them who I am. Convince them we have peaceful intentions. Tell them we just want information!”
Before Jacques could say a word, a tall man appeared from behind the rest. He had long greasy hair and a colorful variety of tattoos on his upper arms and chest. He strode over to the men still punching and struggling and kicked each one sharply in the rear end. Then, with his hands on his hips, he yelled at the two combatants. They instantly stopped fighting, stood, and slunk away to the back row.
Jacques took the opportunity to speak up. He spoke rapidly, telling all what Ross had commanded. Some of the sailors of the Vichy sighed and cracked relieved smiles. Others squinted and looked confused. The tattooed man approached Captain Ross and said something. Then, startling everyone, he drew his cutlass.
But before Hack could get to Ross’s defense, the tattooed sailor bowed and placed his sword at Ross’s feet. Jacques threw up his hands and said, “He is the captain. He says if anyone has the right to surrender first, it is he.”
The captain of the Vichy said something rapidly, and his facial expression turned very serious, almost defiant. Ross looked again at St. Pierre. Jacques rolled his eyes and explained, “The captain says you can have anything you want from the ship, but you will have to kill him if you want the Vichy’s chef and their boudain noir.”
“Boudain noir?”
St. Pierre licked his lips. “Boudain noir is a sausage made with boiled and congealed blood.”
Ross made a horrid face. “Tell the captain he can keep his ship’s cargo—especially the boudain noir. And please get him to understand we mean them no harm.” br />
Through Jacques’s translation, Ross at last convinced the sailors of the Vichy that he was not a pirate bent on plunder, death, and destruction. Ross handed the cutlass back to the Vichy’s captain whose name, he learned, was Lâchance. Captain Lâchance, more than a little embarrassed over the misunderstanding, explained that they had fled Martinique with a huge cargo of sugar and coffee.
“These have been very dangerous waters,” Lâchance said as St. Pierre translated. “So many ships, many of them sailed by friends of mine, have never returned. Pirates have even become brazen enough to attack the settlements and plantations.”
Ross had to ask, “Do you know which pirates? Was it Bartholomew Thorne?”
Captain Lâchance’s eyes grew to the size of ostrich eggs. “Thorne?!” he exclaimed. “That devil is not still alive, is he?”
Ross sighed and shook his head. “Who then? What pirates still sail around Martinique?”
Lâchance explained, “There are many, most of them upstarts. They do not concern us, for we have adequate gunnery for such. But”— and here the French captain paused with such gravity that each man felt a chill—“we believe the Ghost has come to Martinique.”
“The Ghost?” echoed St. Pierre. “Edmund Bellamy?”
Ross immediately understood the preemptive surrender of the Vichy. Edmund Bellamy was as brutal a killer as any pirate to ever sail. It was said that Bellamy liked to wound his prisoners and toss them into shark-infested waters just for sport. He would attack ships and settlements on land with equal ferocity and with no mercy . . . always leaving just one survivor behind to tell the tale. And worse, Bellamy was a brilliant sailor and tactician. He had a sixth sense for the sea and always found a way to maneuver his gray ship into superior—and often lethal—position. His attacks seemingly came from nowhere. And when his bloodthirsty missions were completed, he somehow always managed to slip away before he could be caught.
Ross asked, “How sure are you that Bellamy is in Martinique?”