Isle of Swords Page 3

  Anne got up and saw that the way his head had fallen had made it virtually impossible for him to breathe. One part of her warning that she should get away, Anne gently but firmly gripped the man’s shoulders and pulled. He groaned as Anne flopped him over onto his back. “What am I doing?” she said out loud.

  He was breathing, but the breaths were shallow and sounded wet. He was clearly too big for Anne to carry. She looked back toward the forest of palms, and she knew what she needed to do . . . in spite of the consequences. She brushed some hair out of his face. “I’ll come right back. I promise.”

  Anne backed away, careful not to kick up sand. She turned and ran toward the trees. No more than fifty yards into the palms, she smacked into Jules’s bare chest. “Thought better of it, eh?” Jules clutched both of Anne’s arms below the shoulders and squeezed just enough to let her know that he was not happy about her little stunt.

  “Jules, you’ve got to come!” she screamed. “There’s a man . . . on the beach. I think he’s dying.”

  Jules’s eyes narrowed. “What is this nonsense? Another one of your adventures?”

  Anne grunted and tried to wriggle free. “Let me go, you big oaf !

  I’m telling you, someone needs help!”

  “Show me!” he said, his voice full of warning. Anne sped back the way she had come. Out of the palms and across the sand, they came to the scene of the stricken sailor. Even Jules winced when he saw the condition of the man. Anne saw he lay motionless.

  “Oh no!” she cried out and knelt near him. “He’s still breathing!

  Jules, we’ve got to get him back to the Wallace. Nubby will know what to do.”

  The mountainous pirate did not answer. “Jules?”

  Anne looked up and saw Jules staring out into the sea. She turned and gasped. Out past the whitecaps, a menacing ship appeared. It flew black sails on its twin masts and sat low in the water. In spite of the lack of wind, the craft moved with ghostly speed.

  “I’ve never seen a ship like that before,” Anne whispered.

  “It’s a corvette. Two masts, and much faster than the Wallace.”

  He grabbed her by the arm and began to drag her up to her feet.

  “We have to warn the captain!”

  “What, why—is it Thorne?”

  As they watched the corvette move inevitably from right to left, a blood-red flag rose on the rear mast. “No, not Thorne,” Jules said.

  “Chevillard.”

  “Chevillard . . .” Anne blinked. She knew all about Thorne’s lieutenant. Perhaps not as diabolically clever as Thorne, but easily as ruthless. It was said that a tide of blood followed Chevillard’s ship.

  Thierry Chevillard was known as the Butcher.

  “If he comes upon the Wallace while it’s aground . . . ,” Jules said.

  “I’m faster,” Anne said, turning to run. “Jules, carry him, and be careful.”

  When Anne emerged from the palm forest, she saw the Wallace unloaded and half-turned on his side.

  “Stop!” Anne shrieked, waving her cutlass frantically as she ran.

  “Right the ship!” A few members of the crew looked up, but their backs were turned to the open sea. They did not see the corvette with black sails round the bend behind them.

  “Stop! Stop now! Right the ship!” she yelled, stumbling across the sand in reckless horror. Still, only a few looked up, most bemused, not understanding. “Father!” she cried at last.

  If there was anything in the known world that would get Declan

  Ross’s attention, it was the call of his only child. He dropped his line and scanned the horizon. “Anne?” Then he saw her, saw her waving frantically and slashing her sword. He heard one word drifting across the sand: “Chevillard!”

  Ross turned and saw the prowling corvette and its red flag. The color drained from his face. Knowing it was too late, Ross faced his crew and barked orders. “Right the ship! Right the ship, now!

  Heave the mast lines! Prepare to fight! We are under attack.”

  The crew turned in unison, saw the threat on the seas, and transformed into a frenzied cloud of action. Within seconds they began to haul the Wallace upright.

  Stede strode up to his captain. They both watched Chevillard’s advance. He was coming . . . slowly, but inevitably.

  As soon as the ship was stable, Cromwell and Midge began lowering the gangplank. Ross looked again at the enemy. No time.

  There’s no time. He flew around the bow and yelled, “Midge, get that gangplank up!”

  “But, Cap’n, . . . the cannon shot’s on the shore. We’ve got to—”

  “Get the plank up NOW!! Then get up in the crow’s-nest and keep watch on Chevillard!”

  Stede was in his captain’s face in a second. “Have ya gone mad, mon? We cannot b’ fighting without the cannon shot.”

  “Quartermaster,” Ross said, his words clipped. “We don’t have the time to load the cannonballs, and the Wallace won’t budge with much more weight.”

  “What ya b’ thinking? We cannot outrun a corvette, mon.”

  “I don’t plan to run from Chevillard,” Ross said, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

  Stede backed away, grinning. “Yer an outrageous mon, Declan Ross. Ya b’ up to something. That b’ true!”

  “The rascal’s cutting us off, Cap’n!” Midge yelled from his perch high on the ship’s crow’s-nest. The dark ship stayed out of cannon range, but drifted behind them, waiting.

  “He’s not as dumb as I thought,” Ross said. “We’ve got to get the Wallace off this shore, or we’re all done.” Holding Anne at arm’s length, he asked, “Anne, where’s Jules? We need his strength.”

  After Anne explained about the wounded man, Ross turned and looked at the tree line. Jules was nowhere to be seen. He looked back to see his daughter’s tears. “You did the right thing, daughter,” he said. “No crewman on the Wallace should leave another pirate behind.”

  She nodded, her bottom lip quivering, and joined the others who were lining up on both sides of the bow.

  Except for Nubby, who was unaware of the problems and still back in the forest looking for iguanas, the crew of the Wallace tried to push the ship back into the sea. Grunts and yells arose as they strained against the massive weight. Unscraped barnacles cut deep into their hands, but they did not stop. They knew that pirates caught on land . . . were dead pirates.

  “You look like you could use a little more brawn,” said a deep voice from behind. And there was Jules, carrying the wounded man.

  Ross spun around and grimaced when he saw the bloody mess in Jules’s arms. Anne turned as well. Her eyes pleaded, and her shoulders sagged.

  “Midge!” Ross commanded. “Get up there and lower the gangplank. After Jules gets this guy down in the hold, pull it back up!”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” And like a spider, Midge climbed up one of the mast lines and disappeared over the rail. Once the wounded man was safely aboard, the crew went to work with renewed vigor.

  Again, grunts and groans. Sweat and blood flowed. “Chevillard comin’ round, Declan!” Stede yelled from the other side of the Wallace. Ross stepped away from the bow. Chevillard’s corvette had turned and drove toward them. He’s tired of waiting, thought Ross.

  He knows we’re stuck, and he’s coming to get us.

  “Men!” Ross bellowed. “We need an inch, and the tide will do the rest. Now go for it! All you’ve got!” This time the effort was eerily silent. They stifled their pain and, with grim determination, laid into the Wallace. Breaths escaped in hisses, muscles trembled on the verge of spasming, and hearts pounded so hard the men could feel it in their eardrums. Then they felt it. A shift . . . a subtle bit of motion, but still, the Wallace did not break free. “Come ONNN!!!” Ross yelled.

  Then Ross spotted Nubby coming out of the forest with a basket of iguanas.

  “Nubs, you land-loving lout! Get in here and push!” Ross yelled.

  Still not realizing the danger, Nubby argued, “Blast it
, Captain, I’m a cook, not a strongman!”

  “Get over here now!” Ross bellowed, dizzy with the strain.

  Nubby looked beyond the landlocked Wallace and saw the looming corvette. The basket of iguanas went flying, and Nubby hit the Wallace like he’d been shot out of a cannon. The shift was more pronounced this time. The Wallace moved. The salt water flooded into the small crevice that had opened around the ship’s hull. And suddenly, the ship was afloat. The Wallace slid backward into the surf. “Well done, lads!” Ross shouted. “Now, all aboard! We have a Frenchman to send to Davy Jones’s locker!”

  As the crew scaled the rope ladders and shimmied up the mast lines, they wondered how they could defeat the Butcher with no gunpowder and no cannonballs.

  6

  A DESPERATE PLAN

  The red flag and black sails of their opponent loomed on the seas before the William Wallace. Captain Ross launched a string of commands. “Nubby, get below and see to the wounded man! Anne, you go with him.” She nodded and disappeared with Nubby belowdecks.

  “Midge, Cromwell, Henrik, Smitty, and Red Eye—meet me by the mainmast!” Ross raised his voice. “Lads, take up every pistol, every dagger, every cutlass, every dirk—anything you can use as a weapon! Be ready for the fight of your lives!”

  One man stepped forward. Leathery-skinned with wrinkly slits for eyes, Drake was the oldest sailor aboard the Wallace. “But, Cap’n,” he said, “you make it sound like Chevillard’s going to board us!”

  “I mean to let him,” Ross said. This announcement rattled the crew, but they followed their captain’s orders.

  “Stede, take whatever wind we have and steer behind the corvette —out to sea!”

  “We can’t outrun her!” Stede called back, spinning the wheel.

  “No, but we’ve got to make it look like we’re trying to!”

  “Care to let me know what ya b’ planning, mon?”

  “Not now,” Ross replied. He drew near to his old friend. “Just keep your thunder gun handy!”

  “Got it right here,” Stede replied, grinning. He reached into a cabinet beside the wheelhouse and withdrew a short musket with a snubbed barrel that widened drastically at its end.

  “At least we have one cannon!” Ross winked. Weaving in and out of crewmen and leaping lines strewn across the deck and open hatches, the captain made his way to the mainmast where a group of bewildered sailors waited. No one was more confused or more vocal about it than Cromwell.

  “Shouldn’t we be takin’ to our station of battle?” he asked.

  “You are at your station of battle!” Ross said curtly. “Now, speak no more and listen. Cromwell, you and Henrik get to the top of the mainmast, one on the topsail and one on the main. Smitty, take the mainsail on the foremast. Here’s my plan.”

  As he told them, the looks on their faces underwent a marked transformation from shock and horror to roguish grins. Smitty leaped away and scaled the foremast. Each with a boarding axe holstered at his side, Cromwell and Smitty clambered up the mainmast.

  “Stick close to the mast, lads!” Ross yelled. “Wait for my signal and make a clean cut!”

  “What about us?” Midge asked, fingering his own dagger. Red Eye, a powder monkey—one of the many deck hands who shuttled black powder cartridges from the stores below to the gun decks during battle—stood impassively. The left side of his face was scarred and slightly misshapen from a cartridge that had gone off as he loaded it into a cannon. His left eye was blind, the pupil dark red, and the whites permanently colored a sickly pink.

  “I have a very important task for you two,” Ross said. As he finished outlining his plan, Midge whistled and Red Eye, who almost never smiled, gave a crooked grin.

  “What if we get caught?” Red Eye asked. “I don’t speak French.”

  “Just remember,” Ross implored. “As soon as Chevillard and the lion’s share of his men board the Wallace, you two hit the water.”

  The pieces of his plan all in place, Declan Ross stood on the forecastle waiting for his opponent’s next move. He didn’t have to wait long. Thierry Chevillard’s sleek ship maneuvered across the Wallace’s path, cutting off the ship’s escape. By Captain Ross’s orders, Stede let the Wallace drift slowly into the enemy’s firing range.

  “Declan, I hope ya know what ya b’ doing,” said Stede.

  “Don’t I always?” Ross replied. “Second thought, don’t answer that.” Stede raised an eyebrow, then checked on Chevillard’s ship.

  “He won’t fire right away,” Ross said quietly, almost to himself.

  “He’ll wait until his ship rolls on the top of the wave.”

  “How ya b’ knowing that?” asked Stede.

  “French tactics. The Butcher sailed for King Louis’ Royal Navy before turning pirate. He’ll want to fire high and take out our masts before coming to claim his prey—I’m counting on that.”

  The corvette rolled upward on the swell. A puff of gray smoke appeared on its portside. Then came the report—a muffled boom.

  “This one will be for range,” Ross said. “I just hope he fires long.”

  Except for the mournful wail of the gulls, the deck of the Wallace became silent. The crew crouched—waiting for the broadside to fall.

  Suddenly, a huge plume of seawater erupted near the Wallace.

  “He fired short—great. Stede, get us in closer!”

  “Closer? That mon will drop a big roun’ ball right on top of us!”

  Ross took out a spyglass. “Trust me,” he said. “Chevillard wants the ship intact. He’ll fire high when his ship rolls again. Just get me in there so the shot will go over our masts—not through them!”

  As always, Stede turned the wheel at Ross’s command, but doubt simmered on his brow, and he glared at his friend. At that moment, he caught sight of the men positioned high up on the masts, and Stede nodded repeatedly. “Oh, ya b’ a sly mon, Declan Ross,” he said. “It just might wark!” Stede did his best to slide the Wallace in a little closer, but the wind—barely a breath now— offered no help.

  The corvette lurched back, rolling on the swell. Four of Chevillard’s ten portside cannons fired, wreathing his ship in gray smoke. The booms echoed ominously, and Declan grimaced, knowing that he’d doomed the crew . . . if his plan failed. “Ready?!” he shouted up to Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty. They raised their axes in answer. Ross held his cutlass aloft and scanned the sky.

  The first shot landed just short of the bow. The second tore through the rail and part of the roof of the cabins on the stern. The third and fourth shots were high. One cleared the foremast by a foot. The other whooshed harmlessly between the webs of rigging on the mainsail. At that moment, Ross slammed down his cutlass and yelled, “NOW!!”

  Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty brought their axes down on the rigging that secured the sails to the spars and the masts. The sharp blades cut the ropes. The topsail and two mainsails crashed to the deck. The William Wallace now really was dead in the water.

  7

  CROSSING SWORDS

  Come on, take the bait. Take the bait,” muttered Ross as he watched the sleek corvette rise and fall on the sea swells.

  “I don’t much like b’ing the bait,” said Stede with a nervous laugh.

  “I don’t like it either,” Ross replied. “But I’d prefer a stand-up fight to being blown to smithereens and letting one of Thorne’s men pick our carcasses.”

  “Yer not doing much to comfort me, mon.”

  “He’s got to know something’s wrong,” Ross argued. “He’s seen our sails fall. We haven’t returned fire. He’s got to come.”

  The corvette did not fire another shot. At last, it turned and drifted toward the William Wallace. “Yes!” Ross clapped Stede on the back. “Arrogant scoundrel! I knew he’d come.”

  Stede took the spyglass and scanned its deck. “Must b’ close to two hundred sailors on that ship! Did ya b’ knowing that too?”

  “I’d take the crew of the Wallace even against four hundr
ed Frenchmen!”

  Chevillard’s dark ship turned and drifted so close that the crew of the Wallace could see the sailors swarming on the enemy deck.

  The Butcher’s men wore black bandannas and had red sashes tied around the waist of whatever surcoat or shirt they had on. They brandished pistols, cutlasses, boarding axes, and many other weapons.

  Ross didn’t see Chevillard, but that was not a surprise.

  Chevillard would wait until the battle was well underway before sticking his neck out. Ross had heard tales of the Butcher’s famous heavy cutlass stolen from a Spanish master swordsmith. Ross had also heard stories of the plundering of Lake Maracaibo—stories of how Chevillard had lined up more than seventy settlers and personally beheaded one after the other.

  “Let’s not make this easy on them, lads!” Ross called back to the crew just before the first grappling hook sailed over the railing of the William Wallace. Ulrich, one of the gunners, brought his axe down on it quick. The rope snapped instantly, but dozens of other hooks rained down. One skewered Ulrich’s shoulder and slammed him tight to the side and dragged him overboard.

  As soon as the Wallace’s crew appeared at the rails to cut off the hooks, Chevillard’s swivel guns opened up. With whoops and shouts, pirates in black and red swung down from the corvette’s masts. The first of Chevillard’s men to land on the Wallace’s deck found himself staring into the wide barrel of Stede’s thunder gun.