Page 19 of Isle of Swords


  Bartholomew Thorne slowly removed the bleeding stick from its holster. He lifted the cruel instrument to neck level and began to twist the top segment . . . the piece with the longest and most jagged spikes protruding from it. “I do not wish for my subordinates to take matters into their own hands. If I give the order that the priest should be taken to his cell, then that is exactly what should be done.”

  Thorne twisted the top segment around and around until, finally, it came free from the rest of the stave. He began to pull the segments away from one another, and a long, slender iron chain emerged.

  When the last link of the chain came out, Thorne let the spiked segment fall. It swung like a pendulum near the floor.

  “The priest, you see, does have something I want. Something I want very much. A map that will lead me to the greatest treasure the world has ever known.” Anne flinched. He knew. He knew about the map.

  “But unbeknownst to you and Mister Ames,” Thorne continued, the spiked head hanging down like that of a medieval mace, “the priest does not carry the map. HE IS THE MAP!! And in your blank stupidity, you have ruined the most important corner of this map. Do you hear? RUINED!!”

  Lowther struggled against the chains now with all his might, but it was useless. Bartholomew Thorne raised the flailing weapon. With a ferocious cry, he swung the spiked segment at Lowther. Anne turned away.

  34

  A MAN ABOUT A BOAT

  What do you mean, no?” asked Jacques St. Pierre, standing at the door of Gerard Hossa, his longtime friend. “Mon ami, ever I have been your faithful trading partner!” Hossa’s door, like the first six doors, slammed in his face.

  “Apparently, your credit isn’t as good as you thought,” said Ross. He sighed.

  “I am a shrewd negotiator, yes,” said St. Pierre, “And yes, most of the time, I get the better of any deal I make, but still, how callous of these men to hold that against me.”

  Ross scanned the Caicos coastline hopelessly. “While we linger, Anne is slipping farther from my grasp. It goes against everything I stand for, but . . . we may have to steal a ship.”

  “There may not be a tall ship to steal on this whole island. You have seen. These are fishermen.”

  “I can’t wait, Jacques,” Ross said. “He has my daughter.”

  St. Pierre nodded. “He owes me for what he has done on this island. Believe me, Declan, I want to get him also, but we cannot fight Thorne in a rowboat.”

  “If only we could get to Portugal,” Ross said. “I know a man there who might have the kind of ship I need to face the Raven.”

  “Portugal?” Jacques exclaimed. “Why not Venezuela or even Jamaica?”

  “I cannot afford to backtrack. Thorne will make haste to his shipyard on Cape Verde. Once he musters his fleet, he’ll bolt for the Isle of Swords. If we don’t get to him while he’s in port, or cut him off, we’ll never find him.”

  St. Pierre thoughtfully looked left, right, then up. “Ha-ha! I think I know someone who could get you to Portugal. But it will cost.”

  Near the shore of Smuggler’s Bay, Ross looked over his remaining crew members. Slowly he held out a small bag. “Silver charms, doubloons, earrings, a dagger with a jeweled hilt—anything of value . . . put it in my satchel. It may be the only way to arrange passage across the Atlantic.”

  Most of the men immediately began removing necklaces and earrings. Some muttered quietly. “And whether we find the treasure or not,” said Ross, “I promise you, I will pay you all back twice over.”

  One by one, the crewmen approached Ross and dropped something in the satchel. Midge shamed a few reluctant men by painfully plucking out one of his gold teeth. Even Red Eye, though it clearly strained him, gave up his marvelous dagger with a ruby in the hilt.

  Cat let his leather pouch hide under the folds in his shirt. More than anything he wanted to get Anne back, but . . . the green jewel . . . it could be the key to finding his mother, to finding out who he was.

  “This is great, lads, really great,” Ross said, his cheeks reddening. He held the contents of the bag to show Jacques, who clearly wasn’t as impressed. “We’ll take this and see if we can’t be on a ship this afternoon! And, Nubby, why don’t you see what you can do about feeding these men!”

  “I’m on it already, Cap’n!” Nubby held up three lizards by the tail.

  “Captain?” Cat came running and skidded to a stop beside Ross.

  “Yes, lad?”

  “I want to go with you,” said Cat. “To see about the boat.”

  “I’m sure that Jacques and I can handle it—just rest up, stay out of the—”

  “Please, sir, I’ve got to do something to help Anne.”

  Ross appraised the young man. “Right. Then follow me.”

  Vesa Turinen was an old Finnish sailor who operated a thriving trade business from his cliffside home two miles from Smuggler’s Bay.

  Aside from St. Pierre’s fortress, it was the highest elevation in the northern Caicos. When Jacques St. Pierre, Declan Ross, and Cat climbed the last step of the incline, they found that old Vesa was already quite busy. At least a dozen merchants surrounded the odd-looking man, who was seated at a desk and scribbling furiously in a ledger the size of a tabletop. His skin was tan and very wrinkled. His hair surrounded his balding head like a corona, and his moustache and beard fell like an avalanche of fresh snow.

  Ignoring the others gathered round, St. Pierre pushed his way to the front of the line. “Vesa!”

  “Yes, Miss Hillary, I know,” the old man replied to one of his patrons. “I won’t forget your inks.”

  “Vesa, it is Jacques Saint Pierre. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Get in line, like the rest,” Vesa whined. “Can you not see the customers in front of you?” Some of the other customers scowled at St. Pierre.

  Jacques was furious. “Vesa Turinen, you great imbecile! You look up at me this instant!”

  “Ohhhh,” said Vesa, and he grinned. “It’s you, Jacques! Why, you have come yourself, now haven’t you? Usually you send Esteban or Rafael. I expect you want your usual side of bacon?”

  “Bacon?” Ross stared hard at Jacques. “But you told me—”

  St. Pierre held up a hand. “Never mind that,” he said to Ross.

  He turned back to Vesa. “I need you to dismiss these others. I have a huge offer to make you!” This got Vesa’s attention. In midsen-tence, Vesa closed up his massive ledger book and said, “Sorry, my good ladies and gentlemen. I need to attend to some personal business. I shall see you in one hour.” The other customers moaned and scoffed at this. They waved bags of gold coins, but Vesa ignored them as he led Jacques, Ross, and Cat out on a wide balcony overlooking the Atlantic.

  Vesa bade them to sit and poured them all a glass of something purplish and smelling of fruit. As they sat down, St. Pierre knew it was time to begin the game. “This is an exquisite view, Vesa,” he said, his voice rich with awe.

  “Yes,” said Vesa. “Not quite as good as from your hilltop fort.

  Aw, where are my manners, Jacques. I am so sorry to hear about your fortress. Nasty pirate work, that?”

  “It was,” he replied carefully. “I lost all my wares to fire, but the structure is still sound.”

  “That is good, that is good. Now, tell me, what is this magnificent offer you mentioned?”

  “Vesa, this is Captain Declan Ross and his ship’s mate, Cat.”

  “Declan Ross? The pirate? The Sea Wolf ?”

  Ross inclined his head slightly.

  “I am honored to meet you,” said Vesa. “You are not here to rob me, are you?” He laughed and then took a deep sip from his glass.

  “No, Vesa, we need you to take us to Portugal.”

  Vesa spluttered and sprayed juice off the side of the balcony.

  “Portugal?! Good heavens, Jacques, why don’t you take one of your own ships?”

  “Oh, that I could. None of mine are due back from England or Spain any time soon, and we a
re . . . in need of haste.”

  “But I am to leave for Venezuela in the morning. I have patrons to shop for and a pretty profit to make.” Ross cringed. “Nonetheless,”

  Vesa went on, “I might be persuaded if the price is right.”

  “I thought you might say something like that,” said St. Pierre.

  “I came with a sampling of what we are prepared to pay if you’ll make this journey.” He nodded at Ross, who opened the satchel and showed its contents to Vesa.

  “It is a long trip, especially coming home,” he said, squinting into the bag. “And the weather this time of year is not so—you cannot be serious, Jacques! You want me to hire a crew and take you all the way to Portugal for this?”

  “No, actually, I have a crew. There are sixty of us that we want you to take to Portugal.”

  “Sixty?! For this pittance of gold and silver? You must be joking— what is that, a tooth?”

  “Vesa, Vesa!” Jacques implored. “This is just a sample of—”

  “A sample of nothing!” Vesa crossed his arms. “Jacques, you insult me. First you chase my customers away. Then you ask me to abandon their monies for this little bag? You may swim to Portugal.”

  Jacques felt his throat constrict. “I will put my fortress in the trade.”

  Vesa stopped his tirade in midsentence. “Your fortress . . . and the land?”

  “And the land.”

  “That is . . . more substantial. But no, forgive me for saying this, but there is not much left of your fortress. I would need to put in so much work, and I am old.”

  “But think of the view—a fine place to retire.”

  “Ahhh, yes, that is true. . . . No, I cannot! Jacques, my friend, . . . I . . . I just cannot. Now, I must go and open my ledger.” Vesa finished his glass in one swallow, stood, and started to walk away.

  “Wait,” Cat said. “Wait, Mister Turinen, I have something . . . something to sweeten the deal.” Ross and Jacques looked at him with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Vesa turned slowly toward Cat.

  Reaching into his shirt, Cat fished out the pouch and opened it.

  He reached inside and removed the green jewel. The sun exposed every brilliant facet. It flashed and sparkled like no jewel anyone on that balcony had ever seen before. Vesa nearly tripped getting back to the table.

  “I have never seen an emerald that size before,” said Jacques.

  “Emerald?” Vesa scoffed. “You are losing your eye!” He reached into one pocket of his trousers after another until, at last, he brought out a small eyeglass. “This, this is a green diamond. I have never seen one before, but I would stake my life upon it.” He turned to Cat. “Where did you find this, my lad?”

  “I, uh . . . my mother gave it to me.”

  “And you would part with this for you and your friends to go to Portugal?”

  Cat caught an odd glance from Captain Ross. It seemed he was willing Cat to say no. But Cat thought of Anne. “I will give this to you, Mister Turinen, if you would bear us to Portugal.”

  Vesa eyed Cat’s pouch. “You, uh, have any more of these in there?”

  Cat’s shoulders hunched. “No, it’s the only one.”

  “And one of a kind, I’ll wager,” said Vesa. “Very well. For this, the fortress, and the land . . . I accept your offer. When do you wish to leave?”

  Ross looked at Cat, and pride swelled within him. He turned to Vesa. “By sundown today.”

  “Let me think. Portugal is a three-week journey—two and a half if we have prevailing winds the entire voyage. You don’t just up and go. You need provisions for your crew?”

  Ross nodded.

  “Ah, I see.” Vesa held the jewel up to admire it in the sunlight.

  “A green diamond! I must have it. Get your men, Jacques. Meet me at the sloop at sundown. I will make all the arrangements. I have not been to Portugal in a long time. I will bring many wares to sell.

  Tapestries, cane sugar, spices—this may well be more profitable than Venezuela, after all.”

  35

  A VAST OCEAN

  Flagg, the Raven’s ship surgeon, lifted the bandages off Padre Dominguez’s wounded shoulder. “The bullwhip those idiots used shredded the skin. Even so, I have done my best stitchwork. There just was not enough flesh left.”

  “That is the best you could do?” rasped Thorne. He looked down upon the purplish flesh and the crisscrossing stitches.

  “It will look better when it heals. You may be able to make out more of the map’s details at that time.”

  “It has been three days,” Thorne complained. “How much longer will that take?”

  “The color will fade and return to normal in another week, maybe two.”

  Thorne scanned the map, following the sea lanes he’d need to travel from the coast of Africa, slightly east of the Azores Islands, and north . . . but how far and through what peril, he could not tell. “I need this information, or we could be hunting in the open ocean for years!”

  “There are other ways to get the information,” suggested Flagg.

  He reached for a long rectangular wooden case and delicately caressed its top. “When he has recovered, I feel certain I can . . . persuade this monk to describe the rest of the map.”

  Thorne smiled. “Very well. In the meantime, Skellick has a man good with a sketch. Marley, I think is his name. I will have him come and draw up a sea chart based on the monk’s unspoiled flesh.”

  Flagg nodded and put his wooden case back on the shelf.

  The hundred-gun HMS Oxford led a flotilla of five warships east across the Atlantic. Sir Nigel paced in front of his friend’s desk in the captain’s quarters. “We must turn back, Commodore,” he said.

  “Or at least get word to a goodly portion of our fleet to turn back.

  Declan Ross is one pirate—a particularly irritating pirate, yes—but just one of many, nonetheless. We have left many of our settlements undermanned and our shipping lanes unguarded.”

  Commodore Blake did not respond. He held his head in his hands and leaned forward over the sea charts he’d scoured day after day. In truth, he wanted to return to New Providence, where his beloved wife, Dolphin, waited impatiently.

  “Commodore? Do you intend to sail all the way to England?”

  “Nigel, I am caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. To return to New Providence or sail on to England—without Thorne or Ross to show for the effort? That is no way to maintain a new commission.”

  “True, sir, but should something happen to one of our settlements in our absence . . .”

  “Aw, this is madness!” Blake slammed his fist on the chart. “How do the pirates continually outwit us, Nigel?”

  “It is a vast ocean, my lord,” he replied. “His Majesty’s Navy is yet too small to cover it all.”

  “Very well.” Blake motioned for Nigel to look at the sea chart.

  “We will return, but what route do you suggest?”

  “I do not think we should simply retrace our steps. Let us chart a more northerly route. If by chance we are ahead of Ross and he is making for his homeland, we may yet catch him in our snare.”

  “What a miracle that would be,” said the commodore. “Send word to Mister Jordan, plot us a course back to the Caribbean. Keep a bit north of the usual trade route.”

  Bartholomew Thorne checked his compass. “Excellent, Mister Skellick,” he said to his quartermaster at the wheel of the Raven.

  “Let’s stay south of the trade route. We do not want to run into the British . . . not yet.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Vesa Turinen was as good as his word. When Ross’s remaining crew arrived at his dock at sundown, they found his ship, a sixty-five-foot sloop, loaded to the gills with supplies for the long voyage. Nubby found himself in heaven. There were casks of spices, crates of salted meats and fresh vegetables, and barrels of fresh water. There was even a small pen built into the hold for lambs. Vesa was very partial to freshly cooked lamb. Nubby had
never cooked lamb before, but it couldn’t be much different from iguanas, could it?

  Unsure of Ross’s men, Vesa brought a dozen of his own usual crew. One of them, a Spaniard, went by the name Caiman because he was beastly strong, had a thick, muscular neck, and had skin so toughened by the sun and harsh weather that it appeared hard and scaly. And, to Cromwell’s dismay, Caiman kept a pet crocodile in a crate belowdecks.

  Three days into their journey to Portugal, the crew had fallen into a routine. Vesa, Stede, and Ross alternated at the ship’s wheel.

  Cat and Midge led teams to handle the rigging and repair small tears in the ship’s sails. St. Pierre and Red Eye oversaw the upkeep of the ships eight cannons—not that they would be much use in a fight.

  Sloops were good for one thing—running. Even with the weight of sixty men, ten lambs, and holds bulging with supplies, a sloop kept a very shallow draft and could make tremendous speed, especially in the kind of favorable wind they had now.

  “Keeps blowing like this, mon,” said Stede, “and we’ll make it to Portugal in two weeks!”

  “Never made a journey in such time!” said Vesa.

  “With all respect to your men, Vesa, you’ve never had a crew like this one,” said Ross proudly. He looked across the deck at his men.

  Every one of them had lost dear friends. Yet, overall, they seemed to be holding up well and finding ways to keep busy. Vesa played the fiddle better than any of the crew had heard before. Jules often sang in his deep bass while the old man played, and the men would dance. Cat and Red Eye loved to spar, and, Ross noted, Cat had improved with each session.

  They’d had other entertainment as well. Ross laughed, remembering his encounter the previous day. Ross had been up on the bow when he’d heard bursts of raucous laughter from the stern. Ross decided to investigate. He walked past the mast and ducked under a spar when, suddenly, Caiman appeared. He wasn’t looking and bumped hard into Ross. After dozens of heartfelt apologies, Caiman continued on toward the front of the ship. Ross scratched his head and noticed Red Eye, Jules, and St. Pierre leaning up against the poop deck. St. Pierre wore a grin that spoke of turbulent laughter simmering just below the surface. Cat couldn’t control himself. He covered his mouth, but laughing snorts escaped. Only Red Eye was able to keep a straight face. “Say, Cap’n,” he said. “What time do you have?”