Isle of Swords Page 6

  Stede studied the monk’s back. “This is one outrageous trip, he b’ talking about,” he said, turning to Ross. “Three thousand miles, mon.”

  The captain of the William Wallace shrugged. “The Spaniards do it in their heavy galleons all the time.”

  “And the galleons b’ attacked by the likes of us all the time,” argued Stede. “Or did ya forget that Bartholomew Thorne’s whole fleet b’ hunting the seas for us soon?”

  The monk grew suddenly stiff. He pulled his robe up to cover his back and turned to Ross. “Even under pain of torture, the Brothers of Saint Celestine would not tell Thorne that I am with you. Thorne should not have cause to chase us in particular.”

  “Well,” Ross said as he ran his fingers through his coppery mane, “actually, that’s not quite true. Before we picked you up, we killed Thorne’s second-in-command.”

  “What?” The monk raised an eyebrow.

  “We fixed him good, we did,” Jules said. “Stede buried his machetes into old Chevillard’s back, and Nubby finished him off with about the biggest kitchen knife I’ve ever seen. We used his own cannons and blew holes out both ends of his ship. Sent her to the bottom quick.”

  “You killed Thierry Chevillard?” The monk’s eyes widened. Ross nodded. “And sank his ship?” Ross nodded again. Padre Dominguez shook his head. “The Butcher will no doubt be welcomed to perdition—vile and bloodthirsty man that he was. Did you leave any survivors . . . any who could tell Thorne?”

  Ross lowered his eyes. “Of course you did,” said the monk. “For you are not like they are. But Bartholomew Thorne will not let that go lightly. The journey to the Isle of Swords would be treacherous enough without that threat hanging over our heads.”

  “You mean the storms?” Ross asked. “Padre, I am Scotland-born— the North Atlantic, my old backyard. The Brothers of Saint Celestine did a smart job fixing up the Wallace. We can handle the storms.”

  “More than storms,” said the monk. “In the open ocean, there is always the threat of storm. Perhaps worse, the doldrums. But aside from those perils, it is just a long voyage. We will need even more provisions than the Brothers of Saint Celestine were able to provide.”

  “That’s no problem,” said Ross. “I have a place in mind.”

  The monk nodded. “But as we draw within the last one hundred miles of our destination . . . there, the real dangers will begin. The first is an anomaly in the sea—two strong currents collide and form a deceptive perimeter around the island. The turbulent waters will misguide a ship, but the unwary seaman will not discover that he is off course until it is far too late. This is marked by a red dagger on the map, but it cannot be found without the help of the stars. We must make for this point by nightfall and use the stars to pass over the boundary and onto the real course. We will either find the way or become hopelessly lost, wasting precious days seeking the spot where we began.”

  “This sounds like voodoo, if ya b’ asking me,” said Stede. “I’ve sailed that way many times. I tell ya, there b’ no island there.”

  “Voodoo, no,” said the monk. “But supernatural, I agree. To my knowledge, there is no other place in all the oceans of the world where this occurs. I believe it is the Almighty’s way of keeping the island private.”

  Stede snorted and crossed his arms.

  “Mock if you wish,” said the monk, “but I have a suspicion that we will all need guidance from heaven before this venture ends.”

  Stede uncrossed his arms. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Jules was amazed. It wasn’t often that he’d seen his captain and his quartermaster dressed down in the same afternoon.

  “And if we do navigate the stars successfully and find the perimeter where the currents clash, still we must be wary. For a span of seven miles we will ride some of the roughest swells and currents you have ever seen. Worse still—the colliding forces beneath the waves cause deep sucking pockets to open up. One minute you are cresting a wave, and suddenly, a two-hundred-foot chasm opens up off the bow. A ship drawn into the gaping dark mouth in the sea has but moments to live. The currents will slam the chasm shut, crushing any vessel under a mountain of never-ending water.”

  Stede whistled. Ross and Jules realized they had been holding their breath while the monk spoke. They exhaled together and looked about nervously. Padre Dominguez went on. “We can catch our breath for the next seventy-five miles,” he said, winking at Stede, who still looked shaken. “Then we will begin to hear the first beats of the island’s molten heart. We’ll pass through a shield of mist and volcanic ash, and if the sun has risen, we will see the Ilha de Espadas. The island is shaped like a crescent. The outer rim of the island is sheer and unassailable. The only way to approach it is from the mouth of its bay.”

  “Let me guess,” said Ross. “There’s something in the way.”

  “Yes,” replied the monk. “The island is not called Isle of Swords for nothing. Guarding the mouth of the bay is a unique reef formation we of the Brethren call the shards. Hundreds and hundreds of sharp rocks and coral thrust up through the surface like so many daggers. A ship that crashes into one of these is likely to be split and sent to the bottom. There is danger below as well, for hidden spikes of coral lay beneath the waves. There is only one path through the shards, and I alone know this path.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to write that down for us,” said

  Ross, already knowing the answer.

  “No, Declan Ross,” the monk replied. “I will keep that knowledge to myself until we are in sight of the island.”

  Stede had heard enough. “So, then, we just hurry across that little harbor and fetch all the gold?”

  “Alas, no. We must moor in the harbor, and there I must dive for the key.”

  “Key?” Ross squinted.

  “The Treasure of Constantine is locked tight in an impenetrable clifftop castle on the northern end of the crescent. Without the key, there is no way in, unless, of course, any of you can scale a sheer wall of stone some three hundred feet. The only window in the fortress looks out over the ocean, but it is not an entrance.”

  “And you have to dive for the key?” Ross asked. “Why not just keep the key yourself ?”

  “A key of such value cannot be entrusted to the possession of a man. A man may change allegiances. A man may be corrupted. A man may get sick and die, and if so, the treasure would be lost to all forever. The Brethren felt that it was best to keep the key within reach of the island, but at the same time out of reach.”

  “Seawater will corrode the key to naught—given a few years under,” Ross said. “I hope you made the key of something sturdy and put it in something watertight.”

  “The key is wrought iron, tempered by the Brethren to endure the corrosive power of the sea.” Padre Dominguez paused, rubbed his bottom lip thoughtfully, and then continued. “The key is encased in wax, sealed in stone, and placed among thousands of like stones.

  One must know exactly what the stone looks like to separate it from the others. I know this. The key waits for me to dive and retrieve it.”

  “Why you?” Jules asked.

  The monk paused, again wondering how much he could trust them, and also, how much they could possibly believe. “In due time,” he said.

  “Okay,” Ross said. “So, you can do the dive. Just please tell me that once we have the key, we can just go on up and get the treasure.”

  The monk shook his head once again. “With the key in hand, we begin a five-mile trek from one end of the island to the other. We will enter a network of volcanic caves and sedimentary tubes. From there we emerge in a dense forest. This takes us around the base of Arrojar del Fuego, a volcano that never rests. At last, we are faced with a final climb . . . a mile-long slope that is both steep and perilous. Jags of sharp granite and steps of brittle sandstone at our feet and unusual volcanic lightning overhead. We will make our way to the gate of Boveda de Dios, the fortress that guards both our treasures.”

  “If all this mon
say b’ true,” Stede said, “then how we b’ getting the treasure back down? The slope will kill us, if we b’ heavy with gold.”

  “He is right. It will not be easy,” the monk said.

  “The window in the back of the fortress, how high did you say it was?” Ross asked.

  “About two hundred feet.”

  “And the depth of the water at its base?”

  The monk hesitated. “I do not know for certain, but I suspect there is at least fifty feet of water at the base of the cliff.”

  “We’re going to need woven baskets—and rope, lots of rope.”

  Ross grinned. “I know a man in Dominica. He’ll get it for us. That and some other things we’ll need.”

  “I don’t suppose he has access to monkey pee, does he?”

  The room suddenly went very quiet.

  At last, Ross said, “That’s kind of an odd request.”

  The monk laughed. “Yes, I know. Let me explain myself. You see, within the caves and volcanic tubes that we must travel, there lives a species of lizard found nowhere else. They are carnivorous creatures drawn to body heat. One man is not usually enough to draw them out, but given the size of our expedition, they will come at us in dangerous numbers. The monkey pee has a unique smell that wards these creatures off.”

  “I don’ think I want to know what we b’ doing with that monkey pee,” muttered Stede.

  “You’re right,” said the monk as he turned to leave. “You don’t.”

  “Wait, Padre,” Ross said. “One more thing.”

  Padre Dominguez eyed the captain curiously.

  “Why did you—why tattoo the map on your back?”

  Padre Dominguez smiled sadly. “There are several reasons,” he explained. “It is the largest area of skin without blemish, a kind of canvas of skin. And having the route to a great treasure where one can easily see it would prove too great a temptation, so, again, the back is better suited. But the Brethren’s primary reason for having the map inscribed upon our backs is . . . that it is a symbol.”

  “A symbol of what?”

  “Just as Christ bore the cross, we too must bear a burden.”

  Later, up on the deck of the Wallace, the captain and his quartermaster spoke in whispers. “He’s hiding something, Declan,” said Stede. “Did ya see the way he changed when we told him about Chevillard?”

  “Yes,” Ross replied, his eyes narrowing. “Almost like he knew the man.”

  “Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same,” said Stede. “And, funny how him won’t b’ telling us the part of the treasure him b’ wanting to get fer himself.”

  “I don’t really care what part of the treasure he wants. If Constantine’s wealth is half as grand as it’s supposed to be, we’ll all have enough to get out of this business once and for all,” Ross said.

  “Declan Ross.” Stede clapped his captain on the shoulder. “We both learn the hard way that the sweet trade ain’t so sweet.”

  “No, my friend, it isn’t. If the nations we sailed for hadn’t cut us all loose, I doubt if many of this crew would have ever turned to piracy! Now, in spite of everything I’ve done to convince her otherwise, Anne thinks her only lot in life is to become a pirate. I’ll burn before I let that happen.”

  “There b’ no need to burn. Anne is smart, like you. She’ll come round. And the treasure b’ opening doors beyond the lure of the sea.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Ross replied, looking out across the waves. But he wondered if Anne was already too far gone.

  12

  THE CAT’S OUT OF THE BAG

  Is there anything I can do to help?” the lad asked.

  “Well, look who’s up and walking around on deck!” Ross exclaimed. “Don’t let Nubby see you out of bed.”

  “Too late,” said the lad. “He threatened to hit me with a spoon.” They laughed. The lad stared out on the sea. A low gray mantle of rain clouds waited on the horizon, but there was no land in sight. “Where are we?”

  “About a day southwest of Dominica,” the captain replied.

  The lad nodded absently. He spotted Anne across the deck. She carried a large wooden bucket and disappeared at the forecastle. Uncomfortable silence fell upon them both.

  Ross stood at the helm. He had one hand on the wheel. The fingers of the other twirled curly strands of his coppery beard. “Anne told me,” Ross said at last. “About your memory, I mean.” More silence. “Anything come back?” The lad looked away, rubbed his hand across the diminishing welts on his forehead, and brushed back his hair.

  “That’s hard, lad,” said Ross without a trace of pity in his eyes. “But the sea is hard. I’ve seen men—good men—take ill and die from a scratch no bigger than an inch. And here’s you, near flayed alive. No infection. Nubby says you’ll be fine in a week. You got something to live for, and that’s a fact.”

  Ross scratched through his beard to his chin. “For now, you’ll be living with us on the William Wallace. And as the captain of this old brigantine, I’ve a mind to accept your offer to help. But . . . I won’t be going around calling you lad or boy or some such. If you can’t remember your name, I’ll give you one.”

  The lad laughed in spite of himself. This red-bearded pirate with twinkling gray eyes had an odd air about him. Confidence, arrogance, or insanity—the lad wasn’t sure which.

  “Now we got Nubby, whose real name is William Christopher Jenkins, but we call him Nubs, well . . . for obvious reasons. Then we got Red Eye Bill Scanlon, who had a bit of trouble with a powder cartridge. Some men win a name in combat like Cutlass Jack Bonnet and Musketoon MacGready. But you, I was thinking, you’ve been whipped near to death, that’s plain. And by the look of those wounds, by a cato’-nine-tails, no doubt. Not one man in fifty lives through the beating you took. Nine lives you got, or so it seems. So, for now—at least until you remember your rightful name—I, and my crew, will call you Cat.”

  “Cat?” The lad rolled the name over in his mouth.

  “Done and done,” said the captain. “Now, you said you wanted to help out, and that’s good. Every man aboard must earn his keep.

  You ever worked on a ship before?” The words were barely out of his mouth when he realized how stupid the question was. “Of course, you don’t remember. Right.” Cat sighed.

  Ross looked out to sea and up and down the deck. “Ah!” he said.

  He pointed off the port rail. “See that squall line. The wind’s going to come at us from the east—a better breeze than we’ve got now.

  We’ll want another sail.” Ross gestured for Cat to follow. They came to the mainmast and stood beneath a vast white sail billowing softly in the wind. But up above the main, another sail was bound, tied to a wide spar. “That’s the topsail,” Ross said. He pointed to the web of ropes and rigging that stretched from the deck to the main boom. “I’m going to climb up there, untie the bindings, and let the sail loose. . . . When I give you the signal, just hoist away on this rope, and watch.”

  From atop the forecastle, Anne scrubbed the deck and watched her father. She was amazed at the interest he’d taken in the lad they’d rescued. Ever since we left for Dominica, he’s been hovering over him like a mother hen. She worked the scrub brush a little harder, its bristles digging into the debris and sediment on the deck.

  She’d told her father about the memory loss, and he’d stewed over the name. Cat. Anne frowned and scrubbed harder. Little flecks of black and brown flicked off and flew this way and that. She watched her father smile and point at the sails and rigging . . . and smile again. “Look at him,” she mumbled to herself. “The first time he’s able to walk around on deck . . .” Her words trailed off into a deep growl. She dropped the scrub brush, stood, and scowled at her father.

  Declan Ross saw his daughter’s glare and wondered, Now what is she angry about? He shrugged and turned back to hand the rope to Cat, but . . . he was gone. Ross looked about the deck. No sign. The nearest hatch was still secured. Ross hadn’t heard a splash, so he
couldn’t have gone overboard. Where in tarnation— “Up here!” came a voice from above.

  Ross craned his neck, and there, standing on the boom like he owned the ship, was Cat. Ross looked back at the rigging, then back up to Cat. He realized not only had Cat clambered up the rigging in a flash, but he had also untied the bindings and loosened the topsail. Ross mouthed, “How?”

  Cat cocked an eyebrow and grinned. Looking out to sea, his eyes narrowed. To the captain’s horror, Cat grabbed the top of the rope Ross had been holding and leaped off the boom. As Cat fell, the gaff frame rose to the top of the mast, and the topsail went up. Cat landed softly on the deck next to Ross and tied off the rope. A split second later, an easterly wind barreled into the sails of the William Wallace.

  The ship lurched and picked up speed, and several of the crew cheered.

  Anne watched as her father let out a thunderous laugh and grasped Cat by his shoulders. Jules, Red Eye, Midge, and others—all smiles—surrounded Cat and joined in the merriment.

  Anne went back to scrubbing the deck.

  “He’s a sailor,” Ross declared in his quarters later that evening. “A pirate or merchant marine.”

  Stede nodded. “Mayb’ British navy?”

  “I thought of that,” Ross replied. “That would explain his knowledge of the ropes and rigging. But his accent isn’t British—at least not mainland British. Reminds me more of the settlements, a hint of the islanders’ speech too.

  “There’s something else . . . something that takes the navy out of the picture. He’s got more than the instinct for the sea any good sailor has . . . he’s got that flair . . . that pirate risk. Not only did he raise the topsail just as the wind came, but he did it by leaping off the boom—and this, just days after lying near death!”

  “That mon b’ reckless,” Stede said. “But it b’ a calculated kind of reckless. Knows what him b’ doing so the risks don’t matter. I seen it too. This afternoon, I let Cat take the wheel for a spell. I tell you, him’s hand was as steady as granite. And b’fore I knew what him was doing, him steered the ship down the backside of a swell and into a gale wind I didn’t see.”