Isle of Fire

  Captain Lâchance’s brows arched like a roof over his sad, dark gaze. “We are certain. He has already wiped out Dufour and d’Arlet on the southwestern coast. We have no doubt that Le Diamant is next. So . . . so we fled the island.”

  “You were right to flee Edmund Bellamy,” Ross said, grasping the Frenchman’s shoulder. “He is a wicked man.”

  “Mon capitaine,” said Jacques, “Bellamy must be stopped.” St. Pierre paused and studied his captain. “We are going after this man, aren’t we?”

  Ross had been staring to the south. He was so close to the island of Dominica and, perhaps, a trail leading to Thorne. But that would have to wait. “Of course, we’re going after him,” Ross said. But he thought, The only problem is how does one capture a ghost?

  11

  EDMUND BELLAMY

  This b’ peculiar fog,” whispered Stede.

  “Agreed,” said Ross. “It’s not the weather for such a patch as this.”

  The fogbank drifted like a gray shroud across the shallow waters approaching Martinique. It quickly enveloped the Bruce in its spectral arms, and all at once the crew knew that something was terribly wrong.

  “This isn’t fog,” hissed Red Eye, sniffing the air. “It’s smoke.”

  As the Bruce emerged from the vapors, the crew saw what they had feared: they were too late. The coastal French town of Le Diamant, once a bustling and prosperous port for trading smoked meats, sugar cane, and coffee, was nothing but a smoldering husk.

  “Stede, take us in close,” Ross said solemnly. “We’ll take the cutters from there and search for—”

  They all heard it. “Get down!” Jules yelled just as a cannonball tore through the main topsail, snapped a web of rigging near the foremast, and narrowly missed the bowsprit before it plunged into the dark water in front of the ship. The second and third shots came within heartbeats of the first. One blasted the quarterdeck railing, showering Ross and Stede with splintered wood. But the other was the most devastating blow. It careened off of the base of the mizzenmast and slammed a deck hand named Perkins. Others on deck ran to the fallen man’s aid, but there was nothing they could do.

  “Who?” The question went up from ten men at once.

  “Bellamy,” Ross muttered. He couldn’t see him, but it had to be. “Kalik?!”

  “I don’t see him, Captain!” Kalik cried out from the crow’s-nest on the mainmast. “He’s somewhere behind us in the mist!”

  “Stede!”

  “I b’ getting us right out of here!” Stede said, spinning the Bruce’s massive wheel. The man-of-war responded and swung into the prevailing wind. The sails filled, and the ship lurched. But a sharp cracking sound came from just below the quarterdeck.

  “Captain Ross!” shouted Mr. Hack. “That cannon shot cracked the base of the mizzenmast. The wind’s going to finish it!”

  “Blast him!” Ross grunted. “How did he get behind us like that?! Argh, lower every sail on the mizzenmast—RIGHT NOW!!”

  “Declan, ya best b’ getting the oars b’cause we’re not outrunning him with a third of our sails gone.” Again, they heard cannon fire from behind. Shots whizzed overhead. Several hit the water off the starboard rail.

  “Well done, Stede!” Ross exclaimed.

  “Ah, I guessed right,” replied his quartermaster.

  “Red Eye, Jacques, fire the chasers!” Ross commanded. Neither man answered. For a brief, horrible moment, Ross feared they had been hit in the first volley. But then, from the gun deck in the stern just below the captain’s quarters, four cannons—the chasers— opened up. Ross felt the jolt even up on the quarterdeck. “Chew on that!” he growled.

  Hoping to keep their unseen pursuer from getting a good shot, Stede continued to maneuver the Bruce. Ross was desperate to know where his opponent was. “Kalik, anything?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Where is he . . . where is he?” Ross stood behind Stede and scanned the swirling mist behind them. “I don’t like this, Stede.”

  “I b’ thinking the same thing, mon.”

  Three more cannons fired, but the sounds came from the portside of the ship. The first clipped the spar that supported the main topsail, and it began to topple. The next two cannonballs ripped through the sail, and to Ross’s horror, the second largest sail of the Bruce was now rendered useless.

  “He’s crippling us!” Ross bellowed. “Jacques, Red Eye, port cannons!”

  They were firing blind, but when all thirty cannons on the Bruce’s portside were unleashed it was a fearsome thing. A wall of fire and smoke erupted, and the ship actually seemed to roll slightly to starboard from the force of the cannons firing. Suddenly, Ross saw a flicker of angry red in the distant swirling darkness.

  “There!” Ross yelled. “We’ve hit him! Reload the port cannons!”

  “Declan . . .” Stede’s voice was quiet, worried.

  Ross looked at his quartermaster and then followed his line of sight to the stern just as a sharp gray shape materialized from the drifting smoke. Unique because of its low height, scooped-out forecastle, and series of square sails, the bowsprit of Bellamy’s frigate appeared first. Two lanterns burned red on the forecastle like demonic eyes, and the sleek hull—checkered with rows of cannon bays—slipped swiftly out of the mist and turned behind the Bruce.

  “He’s crossing the T, Stede!” Ross barked.

  “Not if I can help it, mon,” Stede replied. “Mister Hack b’ needing to get on the bowsprit.”

  Before Ross could finish the command, Hack and three brawny deck hands manned the Bruce’s one-of-a-kind swinging bowsprit. “Hard to port?” Hack called, just to make sure. He’d already removed two of the pins on the spar-collar, allowing the bowsprit to swing forty-five degrees. Once Hack had Stede’s confirmation, he removed the last two pins. The four men swung the bowsprit, locked it into place, and raised the huge, finlike sail. At the same time, Stede spun the wheel hard, and the Bruce made an incredibly sharp turn to port.

  While the maneuver had probably saved them from being sunk, it did not take them out of the line of fire altogether. Bellamy, cutting broadside behind the Bruce, unleashed sixteen cannons at once. The barrage tore into the Bruce’s stern, blasting out the windows of the captain’s quarters and killing more than a dozen men on first gun deck. The mizzenmast, having been struck once more, began to fall. Men fled the deck as the hundred-foot piece of timber crashed down onto the starboard rail. But it had not been a clean break. The fallen portion of the mast still clung stubbornly to the base.

  “Cap’n!” Stede called. “I cannot b’ steering with that blasted tree trunk dragging in the watah!”

  Ross leaped down from the quarterdeck, grabbed a boarding axe, and joined Jules—who was already hacking away at the bottom of the mast.

  “Captain, he be coming for another pass!” Kalik yelled from the crow’s-nest.

  “Merciful heavens!” Ross shouted. He saw the sharklike profile of Bellamy’s ship as it began to slide behind the Bruce once more. “With us stuck like this, he’ll strafe us until we sink!” Ross and Jules alternately hacked at the mast, sending hunks and slivers of timber scattering over the deck. The boarding axes were very sharp but were not very heavy. Stroke after stroke fell, and yet they could not cut through. “Come onnn!” Captain Ross demanded. He’d envisioned death many times, but never did he imagine being killed like fish in a barrel.

  “Declan!!” Stede’s voice was high and desperate. And then they heard the cannons once more.

  12

  THE PORT OF LONDON

  Hopper!”

  “Yes, Guv’nor?”

  “Come up here and see this.”

  “Straight away, Guv’nor. I just need to finish stringin’ up this cargo net.”

  Commodore Blake laughed loudly and then turned to his wife. “Dolphin, I don’t think the lad ever stops working.”

  She squeezed her husband’s arm affectionately. “I believe he’s paid his debt to England thrice over on this trip.?
??

  “Yes, well, he’s not going to miss this view. Hopper, get up here right now!”

  There came a distressed squeak from the deck below, followed by a crash, and Hopper’s hairless head appeared in the open hatch. “I’m here, Guv’nor, begging your pardon, but have I done some-fin’ wrong?”

  “No, lad,” Blake said. “You’ve done nothing more than work twice as hard as anyone else on the Oxford. Now, come up here. There’s a sight I believe you’ve been anxious to see.” Commodore Blake gave Hopper a hand up onto the deck. Not that he needed it. Three weeks of hard work, regular sleep, and plenty to eat had put pounds of ropey muscle back on Hopper’s frame. He was still skinny, but far from the emaciated youth they’d found in the crow’s-nest just after leaving New Providence.

  Hopper stood just about up to Commodore Blake’s elbow, so he did not at first see what the man was pointing at . . . until he walked toward the port rail. “London!” he gasped. “It’s really London!”

  “Yes, my young sailor,” said Lady Dolphin as she and her husband joined Hopper at the rail. Towering, puffy white clouds climbed in the bright blue morning sky behind the boxy customhouse on the north bank of the Thames. The great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral loomed in the distance. The Port of London itself was filled with sails, too many to count. There were the vast square sails of tall ships, many of them British naval vessels, as well as the slivered triangles of sloops and yachts. The many sails, teeming this way and that across the wide Thames River, were mostly white, but there were a few of every hue. And from the multitudes of their masts, one could see flags from many nations flying. Barges and merchant vessels lined both sides of the river, and the quays and wharves were bursting with ships. It was a breathtaking but busy scene. And, Blake noted, the entrance to the port was quite a narrow thing contrasted to the wide harbor within. The Oxford was the twelfth ship in line to pass through the congested bottleneck.

  Seeing London again was, for Nathaniel Hopper, a bittersweet event. It was his first home and a glad sight after so long a time, but in spite of the hundreds of sailing ships and thousands of people on the docks and in the streets, Hopper’s parents were not there. And so, the city would forever seem strangely empty. Hopper still held out hope that one friendly face might still live in London.

  “Will we still go and look for Miss Hamilton?” Hopper asked, staring up at Commodore Blake. “Will we, Guv’nor?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “A man’s word is always a promise. First we need to announce our arrival at the palace. I doubt very much that His Majesty will see us right away—if he’s even in England, that is. And if not, we will take a carriage all over London and find this Miss Hamilton.” Hopper’s beaming face looked up at Blake and Lady Dolphin. Then he turned back to the view and rested his chin on the rail.

  “And let’s not forget my little errand,” said Dolphin.

  “There is nothing little about that errand, my dear,” he replied. “I will not rest until you have what you seek or are at least convinced that they do not exist.”

  Having left the Oxford in the capable hands of Mr. Jordan, Commodore Blake, Lady Dolphin, and Hopper made their way into London. Upon visiting the palace, they found that King George was indeed present but had business to attend to until five o’clock.

  “Did you see them whispering?” Dolphin asked as their carriage pulled away from the palace.

  “Yes,” replied Commodore Blake, a finger sliding up and down his cheek. “The moment the guards recognized me, they seemed positively vexed about something. I don’t like it.”

  “Nor I,” she said. “But it seems we must wait until five o’clock for answers, so for now . . .”

  “For now,” Blake said, “we will explore the city of London with young Hopper as our guide.” Hopper laughed.

  “Now then,” said Lady Dolphin, “where shall we begin our search?”

  Hopper stared out the window of the carriage. The streets were filled with men in top hats and long coats and ladies in long dresses. “I don’t think it was around here,” Hopper said.

  “All right, so not in the West End,” said Blake.

  “Well,” Hopper hesitated. “I don’t think it was the East End, really. My father said we weren’t so bad off as that.”

  “Right then,” said Commodore Brandon Blake with a sigh. “So you’re not from the West End and not really from the East End. That narrows it down.”

  “Brand, darling, he’s not been in London in years, so much has changed.”

  “Of course,” said Blake. “Forgive my temper. I’m preoccupied, that’s all.” The commodore leaned out of the carriage door and shouted, “Driver, take us to the east West End!”

  The driver answered with a muffled, “What, sir?”

  Blake winked at Hopper and then yelled, “Just drive, sir. Just drive.”

  After several hours of searching, Hopper at last saw something he recognized. “That’s my tree, it is! Stop!” He turned to Commodore Blake, who immediately signaled the driver to stop. The three of them stepped down from the carriage and found themselves staring at several sections of old row houses, each in varying degrees of disrepair. “Young Master Hopper, how can you tell?” asked Dolphin. “These look the same as so many others we’ve passed.”

  “This way,” Hopper replied, and he scurried off.

  Smiling affectionately, Dolphin noted that the boy ran with his shining head slightly bowed as if trying to avoid a low tree branch. It was a strange quirk Hopper had picked up on board the Oxford. Whenever he was below decks, he ducked his head, in spite of the fact that he was nowhere near tall enough to actually bump his noggin into anything on the ceiling.

  When they caught up to Hopper, he said, “See!” He pointed up the trash-strewn narrow passage between two sections of houses. At the other end of the path stood a pale gray tree with darker patches of bark peeling off on its trunk and boughs. “That’s my tree.” Hopper had his hands on his hips and smiled with great pride. “See the string . . . up there in the top?”

  Blake and Dolphin gazed into the leafless upper branches and did indeed see a blackened tangle of twine. “It’s the only tree on the whole block,” said Hopper. “And my kite’s string always found!” Hopper laughed. “Come on, Miss Hamilton’s place is right nearby.”

  They followed him up the shadowy path to the third house on the left-hand side. It once had been red, but now had faded to pinkish-gray. A window on the second story was broken, and the doorknocker was nothing but a clump of tarnish. Commodore Blake reached for it. “Shall I?” he asked.

  Hopper nodded enthusiastically, so Blake rapped hard three times. Just a few seconds later, a man wearing a dark green robe over a pale green nightshirt answered the door. “Yes?”

  Blake glanced down at Hopper, who was frowning and seemed confused. Then Blake said to the man, “We’re looking for a Miss Hamilton. Apparently some years back this was her home.”

  “Hamilton?” the man replied, his eyes half-rolled back into his head. “You mean Miss Donna?” Hopper nodded eagerly.

  “Ah, lad, sorry, but she’s been gone these two years passed.”

  Commodore Blake’s stomach knotted. This was all the boy needed to hear. Hopper stared at the ground sullenly.

  Seeing their reaction, the man quickly added, “No, not that kind of passed on. Blimey, she weren’t more than a year older than me. Flighty bird, she was, always had a thing for the theater. So she sold me the house, then up and joined some Shakespearean troop that travels all over doing plays. Last I heard, they were doing Hamlet in Scotland. But that was the better part of two years ago, if it was a day.”

  Commodore Blake thanked the man for his trouble, turned to Hopper, and said, “I’m sorry, my lad.”

  Hopper looked up and put on a brave smile. “Least she’s not dead.”

  Still, the walk back to the carriage seemed long and difficult.

  Mrs. Kravits had been more than a little startled to see the daughter of E
mma and Richard Kinlan standing on her doorstep. But here was little Dolphin, all grown up no less—and married to a commodore. Mrs. Kravits regained her composure and insisted that Dolphin’s father had left no more journals behind. She’d made sure of it before she sent them overseas to Dolphin in the first place. Dolphin, of course, insisted in searching her old family home personally. Mrs. Kravits grumbled, seeming a bit reluctant, but at last found the key to the estate. The carriage again sped off to London’s West End.

  They found Dolphin’s family estate with no trouble at all. It was a tall building with one turret and three levels of sloping roofs. Built on a hill, it afforded them a distant view of St. Paul’s and a bit of the port. The wrought-iron gate that surrounded the estate like a moat was ajar. The driver dismounted, opened the gate wide enough for the carriage, and then drove up the winding cobblestone path.

  Dolphin’s key fit snugly in the lock. The door opened with a high, whining complaint but little resistance. Light from the open door shone into the central corridor of the building, from which Dolphin saw a pair of other doors, a spiral stair, and the archway leading to the library.

  “It looks so sad and colorless,” she said.

  “To be expected,” Blake replied as they entered. “What with all the dust settled.”

  After kindling two oil lanterns, they decided to search the library first, which, due to the sheer numbers of books in the room, required all three of them. “I feel like a snowman,” Hopper said when they finished the last of the library’s contents. He sneezed. “Look at me. I’m covered in dust.”

  “We all are,” Dolphin said with a laugh. “But you the most.” She brushed off his head and cheeks with her sleeve. “Now I see why Mrs. Kravits didn’t want us to come look at the house. She’s not done much to keep it up these years. What did that woman do for the pay? Why, the furniture’s not even covered. I’m afraid this is going to be a long and dirty ordeal.”