Blake and most of his men immediately holstered their guns.
Blake unsheathed his saber and said, “Be it by gun or by blade, it matters not. You are all under arrest. If you choose not to cooperate, you will all die here.” Commodore Blake came forward.
“I would not take another step, Commodore,” said St. Pierre.
He waved the torch back and forth and feigned tossing it toward the British soldiers. “If you do, I will throw this torch into the powder at your feet.”
“You’ll all be killed as well,” said Commodore Blake with a nervous laugh. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” St. Pierre reached into his surcoat pocket and took out a small round object.
“Not another grenade,” Blake muttered.
“Yes,” said Jacques. “And so that you know I am not bluffing . . .”
St. Pierre held the torch to the grenade’s fuse, and the long fuse was lit. The flickering, sparking fire began to hungrily crawl up the winding fuse.
“You’re mad!” Blake cried. “You’ll kill yourself !”
“Jacques!?” Ross whispered urgently behind him.
St. Pierre ignored Ross and explained, “You see, Commodore, I took a vow a long time ago never to be captured alive. And these men behind me would rather go out on their own terms than endure a trial and a hanging.”
“Jacques!” Ross whispered. St. Pierre ignored him again. The fuse continued to burn. It was a quarter of the way gone.
“Come now, Saint Pierre,” said Blake nervously. His men shifted uneasily behind him. “You are a bargaining man, right? Perhaps I could arrange for all of the charges against you to be dropped. Just hand over Declan Ross and his crew. And for heaven’s sake, put out that fuse!”
“Ah, mon ami,” St. Pierre said with a sigh. “It is a temptation, for I almost feel like I could trust you, but no, I have thrown in my lot with Declan Ross. And even if I wanted to put out this fuse, I could not easily do so. It—like the grenade—is special. It is waxed hemp strands filled with powder and then wrapped like a snake around an iron cord. You cannot cut this fuse, pull it out, or put it out—not unless you could drop it into a barrel of water. And alas!” He kicked over the barrel nearest the forge. “My water barrel is now empty.”
“You fool!” Blake yelled. He looked at Ross. “Captain Ross, do something!”
Ross, who thought he understood what St. Pierre was doing, said, “What can I do? Like he said, better to die quick than jerking around on the end of a rope.”
“You’re all mad!”
“At last you understand,” said St. Pierre. “Now, Commodore, unless you wish to join our little au revoir, I suggest you and your men depart. And you no doubt noticed the barrels around my mill?
They too are filled to bursting with black powder.” Jacques looked at the fuse. It was nearing halfway gone. “You have about thirty seconds to get as far away as you can before everything within fifty yards gets blown to pieces!”
Commodore Blake’s face contorted into a kind of snarl, but he knew when he was beaten. He ordered his men to retreat, and they fell back quickly, tearing out the door they had broken down and fleeing en masse at top speed.
A few moments later, with just a quarter of the fuse left, Ross grabbed St. Pierre by the shoulder and said, “Jacques, that was great!” Red Eye and the others gathered around the Frenchman.
“You sure scared Blake!” Ross continued. “Ha! Remind me never to play cards with you! That was the best bluff I’ve ever seen!”
St. Pierre’s expression turned solemn. “I wasn’t bluffing.”
Ross’s grin vanished. “What?” He laughed nervously. “Very funny. That fake grenade really had them going. It even had me going!”
“It’s not fake,” said Jacques. The fuse continued to burn.
“What do you mean—Jacques, put it out!!”
“I am afraid I cannot.” Jacques St. Pierre looked grimly from eye to eye and said, “I redirected the water troughs from the mountain.
The English might have tried to flood the mill and ruin my plans.
You see, they are outside—at a distance, yes, but they are waiting.
As I told the good commodore, I will not be captured. Now, gentlemen, it is time to say our good-byes.”
The British schooners closed rapidly, but, other than their speed, they made no aggressive movements.
“Why don’t they fire?” Padre Dominguez asked.
“Maybe they want to get closer,” Stede whispered aloud.
“Maybe they—” A flash of orange lit up the ship. Stede leaped to his feet and looked up into the sky over Dominica. The sound that followed was so loud and sudden that Stede and the crewmen of the Wallace dove for the deck or ducked. But this was no cannon fire.
When they finally managed to stand, they could see that beyond the foothills, in the direction of Misson, a huge roiling plume of dark smoke and angry red flames was rising into the sky. Stede took advantage of the distraction and sailed the Wallace around a bend.
Stede looked back over his shoulder at the rising fireball. “Oh, Declan . . . what have you done?” Just then, Anne stumbled up onto the deck. She stood next to Stede in silence, staring into the sky. Tears welled and spilled down her face. She fell to her knees and wept.
Commodore Blake and his soldiers were a hundred yards away from St. Pierre’s mill when the entire structure—the two-story house, the stone base and arch, the waterwheel and framing—was vaporized by an explosion unlike anything they had ever experienced.
Blake coughed and pushed himself up from the dirt. He stood awkwardly. His mouth was agape, and he stared at the inferno, which, a moment ago, had been St. Pierre’s mill. The commodore blinked, shook his head, and thought about Declan Ross. He remembered the loyalty this pirate had shown to his crew, risking his life twice just to bring one man back. Blake remembered their duel and the result. “He spared my life,” Blake muttered. He looked up at the fireball climbing into the morning sky. “You fool.” When Blake said it, he wasn’t sure whom he’d meant: Declan Ross for choosing certain death over capture, or himself for driving a decent man into a corner from which the only escape was the grave.
24
GRAVEROBBERS
Clouds gathered over Dominica, casting a pall on the stained-glass window of the church in Misson. Brother Jerome, one of the monks who helped Father Espinosa care for Misson’s faithful, wiped the sweat from his brow and continued sweeping the stone walk that divided the graveyard behind the church. Father Espinosa, of course, had gone to help fight the fires that sprang up all around what remained of St. Pierre’s mill. And that left Brother Jerome alone in the graveyard. Not that he was afraid to be there alone. After all, Jerome was in the prime of manhood, strong and confident. And it was, in spite of the new cloud cover . . . daytime.
Brother Jerome stopped sweeping a moment and adjusted the collar of his brown robe. The stone walk before him stretched over a hill and followed the graveyard down into a semi-wooded hollow. Brother Jerome swallowed. Wisps of smoke had drifted down into the low-lying areas and now curled slowly around the skeletal trees, the ever-staring statues, and the looming monuments. “Ah! Ridiculous pagan superstition!” he scoffed aloud, finding the sound of his own voice a little bit comforting. “It is nothing. Smoke from a dozen little fires being put out.”
He continued sweeping, whistling a favorite hymn, as he worked his way over the hill and down into the hollow. It seemed to grow quieter as he descended. The gloom deepened as well as he worked his way down the stone walk that wound under the canopies of trees and ended near the shadow of the higher hills. Brother Jerome looked back up the hill to the church, which suddenly seemed a hundred miles away. Feeling as if someone were watching him, he spun around. But the only thing there was a stone angel. She guarded a gravesite with outstretched wings. Her large blank eyes made Jerome shiver. Calm yourself! You’ve been down here a thousand times, he told himself.
Then he heard a short
scraping sound—like stone grating against stone. Brother Jerome wheeled around, holding up his broom like a weapon. He looked at a large stone sarcophagus just ten feet away. The name engraved there identified the deceased as Jourdan Sebastian Prewitt. Born 1659. Died 1703. The rectory fire. Poor soul, thought Jerome. The inscription along the side of the stone coffin was in Latin. Thanks to the expert teaching of Father Espinosa, Jerome could read Latin very well. Just this once, he wished he hadn’t been such a good student. The inscription read: Venio cum gladio de mortuis.
I come with sword from death. Jerome started to shake. He heard the scraping sound again. This time longer. And he noticed the slab lid of the sarcophagus had shifted. Then he heard an otherworldly voice, spoken from far away and yet, still near.
“. . . waited long enough,” said the voice, heavily accented in French. Jourdan Sebastian Prewitt, thought Brother Jerome. That is a Frenchman’s name!
The stone lid began to move. He could now see a dark gap where the slab had moved away. Tendrils of dust drifted out and curled like fingers around the sarcophagus. “Time to escape this foul tomb,” said the voice. “Time to rise . . .”
The stone lid seemed to move on its own accord. It slid across the tomb and fell with a crash at its side. Rivers of gray dust flowed over the edges of the now open grave. Brother Jerome dropped his broom. He felt frozen in place. His heartbeat thundered. Slowly, a pale figure shrouded in the swirling dust began to rise up. He wore a wide-brimmed hat from which wild, curly dark hair fell like a veil and an old frock coat. In his hand was a menacing silver sword. As he rose, he turned and saw the terrified monk. Brother Jerome, at last overcome by the appearance of this apparition, fell unconscious to the ground right next to his broom.
“Who is that?” Ross asked, emerging behind Jacques St. Pierre.
“One of Father Espinosa’s faithful,” Jacques replied. “Jerome, I think, is his name.”
“Did he recognize you?”
Jacques shook his head and hopped over the edge of the tomb.
“I do not think so. The way he passed out like that . . . I think he thought I was a fantôme. Eh, how you say . . . a ghost.”
Ross laughed. “We might have all been ghosts!” he said as he followed St. Pierre. Jules, Red Eye, Midge, and Cat emerged immediately after. “Jacques, I thought you’d killed us all.”
“In truth . . . ,” said St. Pierre, thoughtfully stroking his thin moustache, “I would rather die on my own terms, certainly not at the hands of the British!”
“How long’d it take you to dig that tunnel?” Jules asked, seeing the Frenchman in a whole new light.
“Moi?” St. Pierre snorted. “Even if I had muscles like yours, it would have taken twenty years. But I am friendly with the Carib. We trade goods often. For three years, they helped me with the tunnel and to excavate my special room. Alas! It is gone now. But what I had stashed away in the mill is only a drop in the bucket!”
“You mean . . . you have more?” asked Midge.
“Of course,” Jacques replied with a dismissive wave. “I have other caches all over the islands. But before I say another thing, Declan, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Name it,” Ross replied.
“What you have done for me,” Jacques began. “What we have done for each other . . . it makes us more than just trading partners.
It makes us brothers. I wish to sail with you on theWilliam Wallace.
I wish to join your crew. Will you have me?”
“YES!!” answered Jules, Red Eye, Midge, and Cat simultaneously.
“Gladly,” Ross said, grinning. “You can sign the articles the moment we get on board.”
“Merci beaucoup, mon capitaine!” said Jacques. He grinned and shook Ross’s hand repeatedly. “Then I will tell you, I have a grand fortification on the Caicos Islands. There we will gather a dozen of those cannons you like so much. And anyone who dares oppose the William Wallace on your—on our—journey, will be sorry. Ha-ha!”
Brother Jerome moaned softly and began to stir. “Now, Capitaine Ross, we need to get moving lest the British discover our ruse. The Carib have shown me the quickest paths, but it is still six miles to La Plaine.”
“Let’s go,” Ross replied. St. Pierre led the way and set a quick pace. All the while, Ross wondered if Stede and the Wallace would be there when they got to La Plaine.
25
THE LOCKET
In his cabin on board the Raven, Bartholomew Thorne scraped a thin knife through the barbs of his walking stick. He always kept it with him, and, after use, he always kept it clean. But now he scratched and scraped and gouged—much harder than he needed. Flecks of dried blood, even pieces of wood fell away. Harder and harder he worked, his breathing deepening to a phlegmy growl. Finally, he pushed the knife against the wood with such force that it stabbed into the meat of his right palm.
He didn’t yell . . . he didn’t feel it. The fire-scarred flesh on that hand would never feel pain again. Thorne removed the blade and absently watched dark blood ooze out of the new wound. A little payback from beyond the grave, Father? Thorne did not smile at the thought. The monk had endured more pain than Thorne ever thought possible. But when, at last, his old, stubborn will was broken, Father Valentia had uttered the last name Bartholomew Thorne had ever expected to hear: Declan Ross.
Ross had taken the map—correction—the human map, Padre Dominguez. Why? Thorne wondered. Declan knows better than to cross me. He’d had enough room on that old brig of his to take all the monks. But he didn’t. He only took Padre Dominguez.
The most obvious answer was the treasure. Like any pirate, Ross would be drawn to the promise of legendary wealth. Still, there was plenty of gold to be had from the fat Spanish galleons that sailed the Caribbean. Thorne stabbed the knife into the top of his desk. Of course, Ross could be seeking vengeance at last for old debts . . . but why now? Why after all these years? No, Thorne decided, Ross wasn’t the vengeful type. He wouldn’t put his life, the lives of his crew, in danger just to right such long-buried offenses from the past.
Thorne leaned back in his chair and looked out the aft windows. He couldn’t see Scully’s little sloop from this angle. Only the endless turquoise of the sea and, of course, the white sand and swaying palms of the island. This small patch of hilly land in the middle of the Caribbean had once been called Isla Aves for the myriad of tropical birds found there. But after Bartholomew Thorne claimed it and made it one of his central ports of operation, it became known as Death’s-Head Island.
Thorne got up and went to the starboard window. There it was, Scully’s ship, bobbing in the water, dwarfed by the other ships of Thorne’s growing fleet. Scully wasn’t much good in a fight, but his sloop was fast, and the man had a way of getting information. Thorne shook his head. Scully’s warning saved us in Dominica. The British had come too late.
Thorne had never asked Scully who his source in the British navy was, but as long as the information kept coming, he didn’t really care. Scully would have news. He always did. Thorne expected his quartermaster, Mr. Skellick, to come down any minute with much to tell.
Thorne went back to his desk and sat down. Feeling uneasy, he reached, as he often did, to the upper drawer on the left. It slid open easily. Bright afternoon sun from the aft windows glistened on an oval silver locket. Thorne picked it up and held it in his scarred hand. Ironic, really. He’d hated it when she gave it to him. A pirate doesn’t hold to such dainties! he’d said. Now, he held this locket the most dear of all his treasures. He had been a fool to attack the British port at Southampton. Their trap had been well set, and their cannons had wrought havoc on the Raven. So many lives were lost that day. But only one was real to Thorne. In the fire, he hadn’t been able to save her, but he still had the locket.
He opened it slowly and gazed down upon a small painted image of his first wife—his only wife, really. The others were nothing, distractions or parasites. Only Heather mattered. He ran a finger over the paint, loving
ly tracing the outline of her heart-shaped face.
The color of her hair in the painting wasn’t quite right anymore. It was too dark, absent the crimson fire that shimmered when Heather stood on deck in the sunlight. But the eyes were definitely right. Almond-shaped, deep green like a stormy sea. It was Heather. But as he stared at her eyes in the picture, they seemed to change. There was anger there now, and, worse, disappointment. Within him, an ache began to pulse, and he could feel his throat constrict. The hand holding the locket began to tremble. His heartbeat raced. What’s wrong with me? he wondered. He’d lost the map, and he’d lost it to Ross—that was it. But Heather’s eyes in the locket . . . how they seemed to accuse . . .
Thorne snapped shut the locket. “No!” he rasped. “It’s not my fault!” With an enraged growl, Thorne raked the top of his desk with his right arm, sending the knife, a mug, and a lantern crashing to the floor.
What is the matter, my darling?
Bartholomew Thorne froze. He’d heard a voice. He looked nervously around his quarters. His eyes fell at last on the silver locket.
“Heather?” he whispered. His quarters became deathly quiet.
Thorne shook his head.
Ross will not get far. You will hunt him down and take what is yours.
“NO!” Thorne yelled, placing the locket in the drawer and slamming it shut. He stood up, knocking over his chair. “I can’t hear you! You, you’re dead!”
“Sir?” Thorne looked up, and Skellick stood in the doorway. He did not speak. He looked pale and shaken.
“What’s wrong?” Thorne rasped.
Skellick swallowed. “Uh . . . nothing, sir. Well . . . I thought I heard—”
“What did you hear, Quartermaster?” Thorne’s breathing became audible.