Isle of Fire Read online

  “That’s more like it!” Ross bellowed. This is going to be fun, he thought. In the lean years, long before Ross and his crew found their fortune on the Isle of Swords, Cutlass Jack had beaten Ross to a plunder of silver and smoked meat—and this when Ross’s crew hadn’t eaten for a week. Ross still wasn’t sure how Bonnet had gotten there first. But he couldn’t wait to see the look on his one-time rival’s face when he . . . Ross’s smile disappeared. “He’s making to lose us around that bend!” Ross pointed at a tall fist of rock that jutted out into the sea.

  “No, Cap’n, him won’t,” said Stede. “We’ll catch the rascal just after him b’ making the turn.”

  Ross took back the spyglass. The Banshee still had a half mile to the bend. “Jacques, ready a few of the portside cannons!”

  A wildly curly mop of dark hair appeared from a hatch on the main deck. “Oui, mon capitaine! They are ready to fire at your command!”

  “To warn them first, and then—”

  “I know,” interrupted Jacques St. Pierre. “Warn them, but if they will not listen, shoot out their sails. Très bien. I am ready!”

  “Well, would you look at that!” said Stede, his mouth agape. The Banshee, now only a few hundred yards ahead of the Bruce, started into its turn. To the crew’s collective amazement, the slender xebec caught an unseen crosswind and darted around the corner in an instant.

  Ross frowned. “How did he . . . never mind! Mister Hack, man the spar-collar! Let’s show our agile friend what the Bruce can do.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” called Ebenezer Hack, who raced around the mainmast and joined several men at the front of the ship. The long bowsprit of the Bruce was attached to an adjustable iron collar that allowed it to swing one hundred eighty degrees. A halyard hung overhead so, at a moment’s notice, crewmen could hoist the vast triangular sail that attached to the bowsprit. If the wind was right, the Bruce could make incredibly sharp turns for such a large vessel.

  “Steady, Mister Hack!” Ross yelled. “Steady . . . NOW! Full turn to port!”

  Hack, whose forearms were bigger than most men’s calves, yanked out a belaying pin in the iron collar, freeing the bowsprit to swing. Two other crewmen pushed the bowsprit hard to starboard. Then Hack dropped the pin back into the collar. He leaped for the halyard, and the massive sail rose—just as a powerful crosswind hit the Bruce.

  Stede spun the ship’s wheel, and the Bruce responded, grabbing the wind and banking around the corner.

  “I love this ship!” yelled Ross, his fervor mounting. “Now, let’s go catch this slippery rogue.”

  Cutlass Jack Bonnet’s xebec had slipped out of a cove just a few hundred feet from the Bruce. “Give ’em a ten spot, Jacques!” Ross called out. Jacques led his gunnery team to train their cannons to fire overhead of the Banshee. After all, dead pirates did not make very good pirate hunters, and the survivors would likely hold a serious grudge. Thunderous booms sounded, all within seconds of each other, and the cannon shot surged above the masts. Each one splashed harmlessly in front of the xebec, but apparently Cutlass Jack had no intention of stopping.

  The Bruce gained on its quarry once again. “He doesn’t know who we are,” said Ross. Then he slapped himself on the forehead. “Ah, thrice an idiot am I. Mister Hack, raise the standard!”

  A huge black flag rose high on the Bruce’s mainmast. Emblazoned upon it was a wolf prowling above a horizontal Scottish claymore sword. Declan Ross’s flag flapped wildly in the stiff wind.

  “Ah! Him b’ slowing down at last!” said Stede. The xebec did indeed slow, and the quartermaster brought the Bruce alongside. The ships anchored, and Jules—the Bruce’s towering security officer—lowered an enormous gangplank, spanning the gap.

  Ross turned to Stede. “Bring your thunder gun. I don’t know how this is going to go.” Declan Ross led Stede, Jules, Anne, and a dozen crewmen down the steep gangplank. The Banshee sat much lower in the water, so they went slowly, careful of their footing. At the bottom a very tall man wearing a dark blue bandana stood, tapping his foot and wearing a very confident smile.

  “Declan Ross,” said the man, his twinkling eyes as dark a green as deep seawater under gray sky. “What you be doing chasing me down?”

  Anne put her hands on her hips and glared. “If you hadn’t run from us, Uncle Jack, we’d have had no need to chase after you.”

  “Little Anne!” cried Cutlass Jack. He drew her into a quick embrace and then stood her back a pace. Anne wore dark brown breeches, gathered at the knees with leather laces and at the waist with a dark green sash. Her leather waistcoat was new, and she wore it over a light green long-sleeved shirt. A piece of red coral carved in the shape of a lion glistened on the cord of her necklace. “Look at ye . . . ,” Jack said, staring with pride. “Why a woman ye be now! And well dressed at that.”

  Anne blushed. It was nice to have someone notice her new clothes, but she thought it best not to mention the treasure at the moment. Jack was not really her uncle, just a close family friend. And with pirates, friendships didn’t always last when treasure was at stake. “We’ve . . . uh, had a bit of good fortune,” was all she said.

  “So I see,” Jack replied, gazing at the tall man-o-war behind her. “I wouldn’t have run, ye know. But seems yer father has a new ship. What happened to the Wallace?”

  “Bartholomew Thorne happened to it,” said Ross.

  A cloud seemed to pass overhead. “Grim news, Declan,” he said, holding out a hand. “But from the look of things, you came out ahead.” The two captains shook hands slowly.

  “And Thorne’s swimming with Davy Jones,” said Jules with a snort of contempt for their former enemy. His deep voice dropped lower with each following word. “The wave took him out. Out . . . and down.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” said Ross quickly. “In any case, I’m glad we’ve run across you. I’d like you to sail with us.”

  “Just like the old days, eh?” Cutlass Jack grinned. “What ye have in mind? A big merchant settlement? A couple galleons on the Spanish Main?”

  “Something like that,” answered Ross. “Care to join me in my quarters?”

  “Ah, a private spot t’ discuss the particulars, eh?” Jack looked over his shoulder to his crew. “My men be hungerin’ something fierce. . . . While we talk could ye see yer way to givin’ ’em some food and drink?”

  “I’m quite sure we can arrange that,” Ross replied. Then he yelled up to the deck of the Bruce. “Nubby!”

  “Aye, sir?” The ruddy face of the ship’s cook appeared at the rail.

  “The crew of the Banshee could use a good tankard and a bite to eat.”

  Nubby’s walruslike moustache flinched. “All of ’em?”

  Ross nodded. Then the cook replied, “Aye, I can do it, Captain. A good stew would go down right. I’ll get to cuttin’ up the iguana fer the st—”

  “NUBBY!!” Ross bellowed. “Give ’em the good stuff.”

  Muttering and grumbling, Nubby left the rail, and Ross led Cutlass Jack on board the Bruce. Closely following the two captains were Stede, Jules, and Anne.

  In Ross’s cabin, Cutlass Jack tilted back a tall silver tankard until liquid dribbled down the corner of his mouth and onto his light brown beard. “Ah, that does good to me parched lips, it does. Now, tell me, Declan, what’s this all about?”

  “Pirates,” said Ross, leaning forward in his chair. “I want you to help me hunt pirates.”

  Jack’s face darkened, but only for a moment. Thinking it was a supreme jest of some sort, he threw back his head and laughed.

  “I’m serious, Jack.”

  Cutlass Jack looked up at Stede, Jules, and Anne who stood behind Ross. No one smiled. Jack’s brows lowered, and he tucked his chin like a bull about to charge. Anne tensed. Jules slid to the side of the desk and watched intently.

  “Never thought I’d hear that comin’ from yer mouth, Declan,” he said. “Yer tellin’ me ye want me and my crew t’ betray our brothers in the sweet trade?�
�

  “Yes, and if you do, the British will grant you and your men full pardon of ALL past . . . activities.”

  “The British?” Cutlass Jack’s mouth dropped open for a silent moment. “Yer workin’ for the Brits?” Ross nodded. Jack looked as if he’d just tasted something far fouler than Nubby’s iguana stew. “Ye’ can’t trust ’em, Declan. Why, that’s why I turned pirate in the first place!”

  This is not going well, thought Ross and he said, “I understand your mistrust—the British have earned it in the past. But things are different. The British navy is led by a decent man now, Commodore Brandon Blake. And as I’ve said, they are willing to issue letters of marque for all who renounce piracy and seek after those who won’t.”

  “That’s blasphemy, Declan Ross!” declared Cutlass Jack. He stood and turned to leave the cabin. “I will never betray my brothers.”

  “You’ll be paid.”

  “How dare you ask—what? How much?”

  Ross handed him a small brown satchel. “Jack, would this be enough?”

  Jack opened the sack and gasped. “How come ye by such jewels?”

  “Long story,” said Ross. “But what’s say we divide the satchel between you and your whole crew? That would make a proper first month’s wage, wouldn’t it?”

  Cutlass Jack grinned and snatched the bag of treasure. “Tell ye what,” he said tossing it into his pocket. “Me and my lads will mull these trinkets a bit and consider yer proposition.” Then, before Jules could react, Jack drew a cutlass in each hand and said, “Course, we could settle it like the old days, Declan. I’ll duel you fer it. If ye can disarm me, we’ll join you.”

  “If you join the Wolf fleet, Jack”—Ross winked—“I personally guarantee all the swordplay you can handle.” Ross motioned to a man who had suddenly appeared in the cabin doorway. This perilous-looking fellow had hard-looking, ropey muscles coiling on his arms and a slightly lopsided face. A ragged scar ran down the left side of his forehead, across his eye, and nearly down to his chin. The pupil of his left eye was blood red and floated in a sea of sickly pink. Ross said, “At the very least, Jack, old Red Eye here will give you a decent fight.”

  Red Eye bared his sharp teeth and gave a kind of crooked grin, all the while, fingering the blade of a long dagger. Cutlass Jack smiled back . . . nervously.

  “Happy birthday, Nubs!” thundered Jules as he pushed through the crowd gathered on the main deck of the Bruce. He stopped to hand the ship’s one-armed cook a small cylinder crudely wrapped in a swatch of gray cloth. Jules grinned so wide that the torchlight reflected off his new gold tooth. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

  Nubby’s moustache twitched, and he sighed. “Yes, I’ll open it,” he said, trying to sound grateful but unable to hide the edge in his voice. Then he muttered to himself, “I’m just afraid I know what it is.” He sat on a crate near the mainmast and was surrounded by dozens of small jars full of leaves, cloves, and powders—the gifts he had already opened. Nubby put Jule’s gift in his lap and used his hand to untie it. He widened the opening with his fingertips and frowned at the contents.

  “Awww, c’mon!” complained Red Eye. “Show us!” The crews from both ships had gathered there to watch, and they, too, demanded that Nubby reveal his latest present.

  “Oh, all right!” Nubby shouted. He reached into the cloth and pulled out a tall cylinder of glass. “Well, would you look at that, a jar of spices. I’ll just put it over here with my other forty jars of spices.”

  Jules frowned. The gold tooth went away. “Those aren’t just any spices, Nubs,” he said. “That’s real tamarind from India. It’ll add—”

  “I know,” interrupted the cook. “It’ll add so much flavor to my stew. Enough presents!”

  “Ah, mon ami,” said Jacques St. Pierre as he burst through the group. “But there is one more present.”

  “It had better not be spices!”

  “No, you see, we save the best for last, ha-ha!” St. Pierre cackled and handed Nubby a long, tube-shaped object.

  Seeing that the size and shape were too large for seasonings, Nubby eyed the package greedily. Then, he frowned at the knots in the twine that sealed the gift, reached for his knife, and sliced through the twine.

  The twine now loose, the wrapping fell away revealing a finely carved piece of wood—three pieces actually, joined by intricate hinges. At one end was a leather strap harness of some kind, and at the other end was a very realistic wooden hand.

  “An arm?” Nubby muttered. “You got me an arm?”

  Jacques smiled proudly. “It took some shrewd bargaining with a master carver in Barbados, and we had to part with a few jewels, but it is the finest craftsmanship, no?”

  Nubby picked up the wooden arm and watched its forearm section sway on its hinge.

  “Stede was in on it too,” Jacques said.

  Stede stepped into the circle. “Try it on, mon,” he said.

  Nubby stood, holding the wooden arm by its wrist. “Oh, I’ll try it out, all right,” he said. “I’ll try it out on your blitherin’ skulls!” Suddenly, Nubby swung the arm at Jacques, whacking him sharply on the shoulder. “What d’ ya think I am, a blasted puppet? I’m plenty good with one arm, thank you!”

  Then he whirled around toward Stede. The Bruce’s quartermaster was too quick, however, and he sped off across the deck. The crowd cheered every time Nubby connected with either Jacques or Stede. They raced around the deck until a clear female voice broke into song. They all turned, the crew of the Bruce especially stunned, to hear this beautiful voice coming from Anne.

  Heave ho, to the sea we go,

  Where ships sail high and the soft winds blow.

  Where pirate hearts beat proud and true,

  We sing this birthday wish to you.

  May the sweet trade winds always fill your sails,

  And fat fish leap off the starboard rails.

  May you spin the wheel ’til you grow old,

  And find your pockets lined with jewels and gold.

  May your black flag fly true and high,

  And you never find your barrels dry.

  Happy Birthday, Nubs!

  The crowd cheered and then pleaded for Anne to sing again . . . which, of course, she did. And a couple of Cutlass Jack’s men brought out fiddles and added a smart rhythm to Anne’s melody. Many of the crew began to dance. Even Nubby, still clutching his wooden arm, danced a little jig.

  Late that evening almost asleep at his desk, Declan Ross was startled by a sudden knock on his cabin door. “Come!” he said.

  The door opened, and Cutlass Jack Bonnet entered. He closed the door with an air of secrecy and turned to Ross.

  “You grow tired of singing and dancing up on deck?” Ross asked.

  “Nay, Declan, I never tire of revelry. It’s been a long time since my lads were this happy. It was a good thought to harbor here together and make merry. I missed seein’ ye up there, though.”

  Ross gestured to his sea charts. “These charts have to be my dance partner tonight,” Ross explained. “How’s my Anne—none of your men giving her a hard time, are they? You know, she’s signed the articles. She’s family—and crew—now.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Jack. “Yer Anne is as spirited as they come. My quartermaster has taken a likin’ t’ her, ye know.”

  “I think her heart’s spoken for,” said Ross. “Though she’d keelhaul me for even speaking the suggestion.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Ah, he goes by the name Cat,” Ross replied. “A good lad. Captain material. He had a pressing errand at the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel on Saba, or he’d be here with us now.”

  “An errand with the monks? Who can tell what they’ll do t’ him.” They both laughed.

  “You know, you really have been like family to us,” Ross said. “Anne still calls you Uncle Jack . . . she doesn’t have any real uncles, real family, except me. It’d be good to have you around more.”

  Jack
smiled proudly, but just for a moment. Then it became uncomfortably quiet. Ross looked on his guest, but Cutlass Jack stared at the floor.

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “Now it comes t’ this,” he muttered, shifting in place. “Seventeen years, Declan . . . that’s how long I’ve been a’ piratin’. I’d have never started if the Brits hadn’t taught me t’ sail, taught me t’ fight at sea . . . taught me t’ plunder the spoils of a defeated foe. And since the day they tossed me aside like so much flotsam, I’ve been puttin’ my seafarin’ skills t’ good use. Declan, it’s all I know. It’s all I’m good at.”

  “You can still use those skills,” Declan offered. “I’m counting on it! You’re just using them for a different cause.”

  “But the British?” Cutlass Jack scratched under his bandana. “They cut us off once. They’ll do it again.”

  “It’s not just the British footing the bill, Jack,” Ross paused, wondering how much he should say.

  “Doesn’t matter. The deal won’t last, and we’ll be left just like before.” Jack turned to leave, but waited a moment. “Do ye truly think anyone believes that someone like me, who’s seen what I seen and done what I done, could ever really change?”

  Declan stood up. “I do.”

  His face masked by regret, Cutlass Jack Bonnet let out an exasperated sigh, shook his head, and left Ross’s quarters.

  Early the next morning, Declan Ross rolled out of his hammock and went to his desk. There he found the small brown satchel of jewels he’d given Cutlass Jack the night before. He hefted it in his hand. It felt as heavy as it had when he’d handed it to Jack.