Isle of Swords Read online

  “Yer not welcome aboard,” said the West Indian sailor, and he pulled the trigger. The sound of this cannon of a pistol drowned out all other noise.

  In an instant, the fight erupted all over the deck. Enemies streamed in across uncut ropes. Pistols and muskets fired all around. Smoke filled the air. Swords clashed, and men from both sides groaned and fell. Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty leaped from their perches and brought their axes down on several heads in black bandannas. Stede put away the thunder gun—which, while deadly, took far too long to reload. In its place, Stede drew two long machetes from scabbards slung behind his back. He went to work, cutting a swath through the enemy’s first wave. Ross’s men were better fighters hand-to-hand, but Chevillard’s numbers began to overwhelm them.

  Ross waited and watched until he was convinced that most of Chevillard’s fighting force had boarded the Wallace. Then he saw Midge and Red Eye slip over the side unnoticed. That was it. The rest was out of his control. “Now for it, lads!” he yelled, drawing his cutlass. “Give ’em one for Scotland! Give ’em one for old William Wallace!”

  He leaped into the fray, rolled, and took down two of Chevillard’s men with a long, hard slash across their knees. Ross ducked and, in one brutal movement, swung his cutlass just as a pirate in black aimed a pistol at his head. The pirate’s arm—pistol and all—fell at the feet of the astonished sailor. A kick to the midsection sent him flying, and Ross ran to the next fight.

  Belowdecks, Anne wiped a moist cloth across the wounded man’s forehead. He lay on his side upon a table so that Nubby could treat his back. “These are most grievous wounds,” said the ship’s cook and doctor.

  They heard the cannon shots, the muskets, the shouts, and heavy footfalls. Nubby ignored them and continued his work. Anne grimaced, wondering if at any moment, Chevillard’s sailors would crash through the cabin door. If they did, Anne would be ready with her cutlass. But she hoped it would not come to that.

  As Anne continued to wipe the dried blood and grime from the man’s welted face, she realized that he was much younger than she had at first supposed. He had no beard or moustache, but she hadn’t noticed—her attention had been so drawn by the wounds and blood. How old? she wondered. Sixteen, seventeen?

  He groaned and arched his back. “Sorry, lad!” said Nubby. He lifted a cloth daubed in a cranberry-colored paste. “That’s just the ointment doing its work.”

  The lad’s eyes fluttered, then opened for just a moment. He looked up at Anne. “I . . . I know you, don’t I?” he said weakly before his eyes closed. Anne stepped backward.

  “What did ’e say?” Nubby asked. But before Anne could answer, a tremendous crack sounded from somewhere beyond the cabin door.

  “Topside!” Anne exclaimed. “They’re trying to get down here!”

  “Anne,” Nubby ordered. “Help me lay ’im on his back—if there’s a ruckus, I don’t want ’im fallin’ off the table!” Another sharp crack. Anne’s hand went instantly to the hilt of her sword.

  “You’ll do ’im no good that way!” Nubby barked. “Hide yourself !”

  Nubby reached into his coat and withdrew a very long knife. Then he ducked into a tall cabinet. “Hide!” he hissed at Anne.

  She ignored him and drew her cutlass. “Oh, you’re just like your father,” he said, and slammed the cabinet door shut. Anne heard boots on the stairs just outside the door.

  Declan Ross clambered up to the forecastle deck. The battle still raged, and it seemed the crew of the Wallace was holding their own.

  But to his dismay, Ross realized that Chevillard’s men now held the starboard rail. The corvette had drifted closer, and a long gangplank extended the distance between the two ships. A dark shape appeared from this gangplank and strode onto the deck of the Wallace. He wore a captain’s tricorn hat, but gun smoke hid his face.

  Ross watched as this tall enemy swept out a long curved blade.

  Ross’s men, Henrik and Smitty, stood in the villain’s way. But they were no match for Thierry Chevillard, the Butcher.

  “Nooooo!” Ross yelled, leaping down from the forecastle only to be blocked by a sea of combatants. The crowd twisted and thickened, and Ross could see nothing of his enemy’s progress. He made his way at last to the portside rail and grabbed a rope that had been tied off there. He climbed up above the melee and saw that Chevillard was headed toward the stern. He stopped at the door that led belowdecks to the captain’s quarters, and slammed a heavy black boot into the center of the door. It shivered. The second kick did more damage. And the third sundered the door altogether.

  He’s looking for me, Ross thought. He felt a chill. Anne!

  He began to run along the rail. “I’m here!” he yelled.

  “Chevillard!” But through the clamor of battle, the French pirate paid no heed to a distant shout from one man. Two of his mates leading the way, Chevillard disappeared through the door.

  “No!!” Ross yelled. He raced along the rail recklessly—too recklessly. He reached for a rope to steady himself, but his eyes were trained on the stern. He missed the rope, slipped, and fell. His head banged smartly on the deck. Slowly, Ross got to one knee. Anne! he thought desperately. Then he collapsed.

  8

  CAPTAIN’S FALL

  A pounding came from the other side. The door to the captain’s quarters shivered. Anne stood between it and the table where the wounded lad lay. Ignoring desperate whispered pleas from Nubby in the cabinet behind her, she held her cutlass out in front. The wood near the lock cracked, and the door slammed open.

  Two sailors charged in, swords outstretched. Anne caught one sword with her cutlass, spiraled her blade around his, and drove it down. With a sudden flick of her wrist, she jabbed the sharp point of her sword beneath the man’s crossguard and carved a gash across his fingers. With a yelp, he dropped the sword. Before she could finish him off, the second pirate swept a savage blow at Anne’s midsection. She dropped to a knee and drove her cutlass into his thigh. He fell to the ground, clutching his leg.

  A man wearing a dark leather tunic and a large tricorn hat ducked under the doorway and stood between the two pirates Anne had wounded.

  “Inutile!” Chevillard hissed. He raised a huge cutlass and, with very little effort, killed the two men who had failed him.

  Finally, Chevillard turned to Anne. “Sacre bleu!” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “La jeune femme! ”

  “Get out of here!” Anne cried out. She glared at him as long as she could, but it was hard to endure his intense menacing gaze. He stood a foot taller than she did. His shoulders were broad, and he was clearly very strong. But there was abject cruelty in his heart-shaped face. A sharply pointed beard bordered his thin, sneering lips.

  A scar wormed its way across his right cheek and the bridge of his nose. But his eyes were the worst. Black and hard like polished stone . . . cold and pitiless, they stared out from heavy slanted brows.

  “Forgive my manners,” Chevillard said, now in heavily accented English. He made an exaggerated bow. “But I did knock.”

  Like lightning, Anne stole the opportunity and thrust at his neck even as he bowed. But Chevillard almost casually dashed away her strike. His second blow tore Anne’s cutlass from her hand and sent the weapon clattering against the cabin wall. Chevillard leveled his sword’s point at Anne’s face and kept it trained on her as she stepped toward her own blade. Realizing she had no chance to retrieve her weapon, she glanced back over her shoulder at the lad who lay on the table.

  Chevillard followed Anne’s gaze. When he saw the wounded lad, his eyes flickered with fire. “You!” he gasped.

  “I’ll take fore,” said Red Eye. “More men likely to be there. You take aft.” Midge heartily agreed. The less fighting the better. They crouched in a narrow space behind a bank of large crates in the corvette’s hold. They had come in through an exterior window and found themselves one level above their objective: the gun deck.

  “He hasn’t moved,” Midge said, referring t
o an armed sailor who stood by the entrance to the stairwell.

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Red Eye. Midge winced. He knew what that meant. Red Eye crept silently out of their hiding place. A moment later, Midge heard a low whistle. He peered around the crate. The guard was gone. Red Eye stood by the stairwell gesturing for Midge. As Red Eye skulked down the stairs into the shadows, Midge hurried after him.

  At the base of the stairs, the gun deck spread out left and right.

  Midge growled under his breath. Chevillard had not left the gun deck unattended. A group of pirates milled about around the base of the foremast. But just as Red Eye had predicted, there were fewer men aft.

  “All right,” Midge said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Red Eye grabbed Midge’s elbow. “Here,” he said. “Take this.”

  He handed Midge a dark ball the size of a grapefruit.

  “A grenade?” Midge’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

  “I was the last one off the cay.” Red Eye’s grin widened as he removed a dry wick and carefully placed it in the grenade. “I would have gotten more, but Captain Ross caught me, ordered me aboard.”

  Midge shook his head. “You’ve more men to take care of. You should take it.”

  “No.” His face darkened. “I won’t need it.”

  Midge didn’t doubt it. He took the grenade and spotted a lantern three cannons away.

  “Take ’em out quick,” Red Eye said. “I’ll use the ruckus you make as a distraction.”

  “Then we turn the cannons,” Midge replied. “Remember, down and at the beam, like I showed you.”

  “Right. Good-bye, corvette.” Red Eye moved out.

  Midge scuttled away, and then peered around the side of the cannon bay. The two sailors who stood in his way were as far aft as they could be. They gestured animatedly to each other and laughed. But their comic moment was cut short. A dark ball rolled between them. The fuse burned quickly and disappeared, and the grenade exploded. The two men were flung aside like rag dolls.

  Midge went right to work. He removed the chocks from behind the last starboard cannon, and he used an iron pike to lever the cannon out of the bay. As it rolled, he tossed a wedge behind the cannon’s back right wheel. One wheel stopped, the cannon turned, facing the stern beam. The other wheel chocked, Midge loaded the cannon: powder, cannonball, and at last the plug. He raced to the lantern and lit the cannon’s fuse. Then Midge dove out of the cannon’s now-open window and disappeared into the dark water.

  Chevillard’s face twisted in rage. He looked from the prone lad back to Anne as if not sure whom to kill first. He decided on Anne and drove his blade toward her, aiming for her heart. At that moment several things happened in quick succession: Something struck Chevillard from behind, and he stopped short, arching his back and gasping; a pair of explosions rocked the William Wallace; and Nubby charged out of the cabinet, raced around Anne, and attacked Chevillard with the kitchen knife.

  A knife in his chest and two machetes in his back, Thierry Chevillard—the pirate known as the Butcher, Bartholomew Thorne’s lieutenant, and the murderer of countless souls—fell dead.

  9

  DEATH’S-HEAD ON SABLE

  Captain Declan Ross awoke to many familiar faces. He stared up at Nubby, Midge, Red Eye, Jules, and Stede. “Anne?” he mouthed.

  “I’m here, Father.” And there she was. Her scarlet hair was pulled back, and her hazel eyes glimmered with joy in a way that he hadn’t seen since Anne was a little girl. She bent over him and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Where are we?” he asked weakly.

  “Underway,” Stede answered.

  “Underway?” Ross exclaimed, and he tried to sit up. The moment he did, he felt a pounding in his ears and horrendous pressure near his temples. Nubby and Jules eased the captain back into a prone position. “But . . . the sails?”

  “Fixed ’em, we did. We b’ heading for Saint Celestine,” Stede explained. “Got some fortunate wind back in our sails. Ya slept through most of the trip. One day out now.”

  “What happened?” Ross asked, his mind awash with memories.

  “I fell, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Nubby answered. “And next time you decide to leap off the rail, try not to make it headfirst!” The group laughed nervously.

  “Chevillard?”

  “That outrageous mon b’ sleepin’ with the fishes,” Stede said. “I saw him heading for yer quarters. I knew Anne was there. I went after him.”

  “He saved my life, Father,” Anne said.

  Ross grabbed Stede’s forearm. “That’s another lifetime of friendship I owe you.”

  “That makes four, so far.” Stede laughed.

  Ross coughed and winced at the pain. “The ship . . . Chevillard’s ship?”

  “On the bottom,” Red Eye said. “Just like you said. We turned her own cannons on her and blew out her backbone.”

  “But there were survivors, Cap’n,” explained Midge. “But knowin’ ’ow you feel, we left ’em on the cay.”

  “That’s why we b’ hightailing it to Saint Celestine,” said Stede. “If Thorne come around the cays and find out what we done . . .” He didn’t need to finish. They all knew. Ross shook his head slowly. In defeating Chevillard, he’d just made a mortal enemy of Bartholomew Thorne. The William Wallace, and everyone aboard, was now marked.

  “We grabbed some provisions from the cay,” Anne said.

  “Plantains and some of the hardtack from the crates.”

  “And loads of iguana!” said Nubby.

  “The ship still needs to be careened something awful,” said Midge. “And we lost a lot of men in the scrap with Chevillard. Stede figured Saint Celestine would be the best place to fix the ship.”

  “Thank God for the monks,” Ross said. His head lolled to the side, and he slept.

  The next morning dawned glorious and bright as only Caribbean mornings can. Turquoise water glistened as it captured drops of golden sunlight. The sky was a soft purple at the horizon and faded into pure cerulean. Two wisps of pure-white clouds hung over the rising sun like the brow of some great jolly face. Captain Ross stood at the prow of the Wallace and breathed deeply of the sea air . . . and freedom. Nothing tasted as good as freedom, especially to Ross, who had for a dark period of his life endured the harsh yoke of slavery.

  Ross looked forward to the hospitality of the monks. It had been over a year since the Wallace last made port on the island monastery of St. Celestine. It was a place of refuge for pirates, and over the years he and his crew had become friends with the small order, and sometimes brought them spices from afar. The monks there hoped to lead pirates away from sin and into Christianity through their charity and provision. They had huge gardens and orchards. They made the most hearty breads and savory cheeses. And, aside from the buccaneers of Barbados, the monks had the only fresh beef in the Caribbean. They washed it all down with the finest port wine that could be had west of France. This they gladly shared with even the most ruthless of scoundrels. And never once did the monks aid colonial or royal navies in their quest to capture these same pirates. For this reason, it was common fact—even written into most ships’ pirate law—that St. Celestine was off-limits for pirate attacks.

  So it was an unhappy surprise that greeted the crew of the William Wallace when they pulled into port at the holy isle. “Give me the glass,” said Ross. Even as he brought the spyglass up to his eye, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He scanned the shoreline and saw the statue of Mary kneeling at the water’s edge, blessing the sea and all who travel upon it. There were row upon row of wooden stakes attached by gossamer white twine—the vineyards, and beyond them, the orchards and the dark stone of the abbey. But in the foreground left of the monastery, stabbed deep into the sandy shore, was a black flag. Upon its sable field were the white silhouette of an hourglass, a skull over crossed swords, and a raven taking flight.

  “It’s Thorne,” Ross said. “He’s put his death’s-head flag
upon the shore to warn them. He plans to take the island.”

  “That madman!” Stede exclaimed. “What does that mon think he b’ doin’? Attacking the monks is against the code.”

  “He thinks he’s above the code,” Ross muttered. “This is no longer a safe haven.”

  “Welcome, Captain Ross,” said Father Raphael Valentia, the chief of the order of St. Celestine. “Your return is an unlooked-for blessing.” He glanced behind Ross at the Wallace. “Your ship is in need of careening, I see. We will do this for you and supply you with fresh provision.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Ross stood on the deck near the bowsprit. “As always, we appreciate your kindness. But that flag makes me think we won’t have the time. When did the death’s-head show up?” Ross gestured toward the Raven’s flag.

  Father Valentia grimaced, and the group of monks gathered there murmured among themselves.

  “Captain Thorne’s warning defiled our shore before the sun rose yesterday morning.”

  “That gives you only two more days before he returns and attacks,” Ross thought aloud. “Have you made arrangements to get to the mainland?”

  “We are not leaving our island,” said Father Valentia.

  “What?” Ross exclaimed. “You must leave. Do you not realize what that flag means? He’s marked Saint Celestine—claimed it as his. He’ll kill everyone. Do you understand—EVERYONE!! Father, we are old friends. I’ll grant passage to you and the Brothers to sail with us. The Brothers and my crew will be able to quickly prepare the Wallace, fill up our barrels and crates with food and drink. We will leave tonight for Santo Magherito. From there you can get to the mainland, far away from the co—”

  “We are not leaving, Declan.” The monk’s face was calm—even peaceful—but resolute. “But we would ask one favor of you.”

  “Anything, Father,” Ross replied.

  Father Valentia turned his head and nodded. The group parted, and a hooded monk came forward. He stood by Father Valentia and lowered his hood. His hair was dark, but his eyes were darker . . . sinkholes surrounded by skin deeply tanned but cracked and weather-beaten.