Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “No,” said Ross. “Our welcome is worn quite thin.”

  “Well, I’m part a’ yer plan, whatever it be,” said Jack, slapping Ross on the shoulder. “But I pray yer not plannin’ to head back t’ the islands . . . are ye? I mean the lads are half-mad from sailin’ nonstop like we did.”

  “No, you’re right,” said Ross, his eyes brightening. “We do need a break. We sail for Edinburgh.”

  “O’Lordan’s?” Jack asked.

  Ross grinned. “Is there any other place?”

  “Ah . . . ,” said Jack. “I can taste the meat pies now.”

  Anne had the wheel of the Constantine. She looked over her shoulder at the island of New Providence, now disappearing in the ship’s wake. “I don’t understand what has happened,” said Anne.

  Father Brun stood at her side. “I want to know why Commodore Blake was so abruptly called away to England.”

  “The servants certainly seemed concerned,” said Anne.

  “As am I.” Father Brun’s tone was unusually hard. “And just what does King George think he’s doing reneging on our deal? He can spend or not spend England’s wealth as he sees fit. But to stop payment to the pirate-hunting fleet and claim the Brethren’s share of the treasure for England . . . we’ll just see about that.”

  Wind suddenly snapped the sails taut. Anne looked off the starboard bow where an angry thatch of dark clouds swirled. “Glad we’re not sailing through that,” said Anne.

  “Hurricane?”

  “Hard to tell,” Anne replied, shaking her head. “I’ve only seen a hurricane at sea twice, and one was when I was too little to remember.” She watched a white thread of lightning reach down from the distant clouds to the sea. “Bad enough. But the wind out here on its fringe will give us a bit more speed.”

  Father Brun also watched the storm. “Good. The faster we get to England . . . the better.”

  Hopper saw the cutter come to the big ship next to the Oxford and then go. And now it returned once more with the same man at the bow. But this time, seated in the stern between huge, armored guards were Commodore Blake and Lady Dolphin. Hopper looked at the mooring lines between the Oxford and the other ship. The lines will get me to it, but it’s not going to be much fun! he thought. And no mistake. Still, he’d have to try. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “You arrogant wretch,” snapped Blake, standing before Bartholomew Thorne’s desk in the captain’s quarters. “You think I’ll tell you anything after you murdered my quartermaster . . . my friend?”

  “An intelligent man might have learned something from that,” said Thorne, scraping flakes of blood from his bleeding stick with a dagger. “Your wife is waiting in a cell below. I see—”

  Blake broke away from the Raukar guards and dove for Thorne’s desk, but Edward Teach was there. He grabbed Blake by the shoulders and flung him back to the guards. “Commodore Blake,” rasped Thorne, “you try anything like that again, and I’ll peel the skin from your wife’s body one inch at a time. Teach, go and get her. Then we’ll see how cooperative Commodore Blake can be.”

  While Teach was gone, Blake glared at Thorne and said very quietly, “If you hurt her . . .”

  “You’ll what?” asked Thorne, taunting his captive. “Hang yourself in your own chains? You are in a position of weak—” Thorne never finished his thought. The door opened, and Teach led a woman into the room. And for Thorne, it was as if time had slowed. The room . . . the world had all gone to an ashen gray. For Heather had come alive once more, but not a voice . . . real . . . and in the room with him now. She was just as he remembered her: tall, slender but strong . . . the same pale skin that made her deep green eyes so mysterious . . . the fiery red hair. And yet there were some differences. The line of her jaw was more squared . . . her brow more prominent. And she looked so young. Still, the resemblance was so striking that Thorne could think of nothing else.

  “Sir?” asked Teach.

  Thorne wheeled around, his face slack and eyes unfocused. “Seat her in the chair,” said Thorne blankly. Teach did so, looking from Dolphin to the portrait and back.

  Then for the first time, Blake noticed the portrait and gasped. The likeness was unmistakable. Then something Declan Ross had told him two years earlier came to mind. Blake bowed his head and moved it side to side as if searching the floor for answers. He thought, It cannot be . . .

  Thorne lost all thought of torturing this woman. “How old are you?” he asked her.

  Dolphin looked over her shoulder at her husband. He nodded. “Four and twenty,” she replied, more than a little bitterness etching her features. “Why do you stare like that?”

  Thorne did not answer. He remembered Heather had been nine and twenty when she died. He shook his head. It was unimaginable, but he asked, “Where were you born?”

  “Just outside of London,” she muttered. “Kingston it is called.”

  “And who are your parents?”

  “Why do you bring me here?” Dolphin cried angrily. “Why—”

  “WHO ARE YOUR PARENTS?” Thorne rose up with his hands pressed flat on the desk. His voice became low and viscous.

  “Emma and Richard Kinlan,” she whispered at first, but then grew fierce. “My mother died of malaria, and YOU killed my father!”

  “Did I?” The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Thorne couldn’t make a connection. He looked to the painting once more and back at Dolphin. The years were right. “Mister Teach,” he said suddenly, “take Commodore Blake and his wife back to their cells. See to it that they have something decent to eat.”

  Teach looked at his captain and wondered about the sudden change. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

  Before they left the room, Thorne said, “In three days, sixty ships of war, including your Oxford, will sail for England.” Thorne smiled, but it was a ghastly, skullish grin. “You will both live that long . . . for I want you to watch London burn.”

  After they were gone, Thorne unrolled a sea chart and tried to plan his attack. But his mind went back to a different fire . . . one that had burned four and twenty years earlier.

  “Do ye have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been here?” Cutlass Jack asked as he and Declan Ross led a troupe of sailors from both ships up the always misty cobblestone streets of Edinburgh, Scotland. They’d sailed all afternoon, all night, and just arrived as the sun rose—and yet, compared to their recent crossing of the Atlantic, this little voyage seemed like a blink.

  “Too long, I imagine,” said Ross. He could see the familiar O’Lordan’s sign just up the hill.

  “Oooh, I’m gettin’ me two meat pies,” said Jack, rubbing his stomach.

  “A skillet full of bacon and fried potatoes for me,” Jules said, and as if on cue, his stomach rumbled.

  “O’Lordan’s has the best bangers and mash,” offered Slash.

  “Haggis or a pan of colcannon?” asked Red Eye. “I cannot decide.”

  St. Pierre snorted. “You English . . . you have no taste. To you a piece of clay topped with sawdust is succulent. Ah, I long for Paris.”

  Hack laughed and said, “Anything’s better than Nubby’s cook—”

  “Watch yer mouth,” said Nubby, pinching Hack’s ear. “Or you might find something a wee bit unsavory in your soup next time.”

  “Besides, Hack old boy,” Slash retorted, “by the look of you, you’ve enjoyed Nubby’s cooking quite well.” Hack feigned offense and made to draw his sword. The group laughed the rest of the way to the tavern. But Ross found it difficult to make merry.

  Once inside, the two crews virtually took over O’Lordan’s. Tavern keeps and serving maids shuttled tankards and platters back and forth. The kitchen nearly caught fire with so many meals cooking at the same time. Ross’s mug was empty, and the serving maids were quite busy, so he went to get a refill himself. He’d half-filled his mug when the kitchen door flung open and a very familiar face stuck out. “Tell them we’ve no more bangers and mash!”—the curly-headed man said—�
�I’ve got meat pies and haggis to spare, and that’ll have to do.”

  Ross couldn’t believe his eyes. “MacCready?” he said.

  “Aye,” said the man. His moustache and beard were wavy and curled. Even his eyebrows were dark and unruly. He looked up and saw Ross. “Declan? Declan Ross, is that you?”

  The two old friends clasped arms. “Musketoon MacCready,” said Ross. “Last I heard you’d gone gold hunting in South America. What are you doing here?”

  “Cookin’, don’t ye see?” MacCready answered. “And lovin’ it.”

  “Tell me you didn’t get rid of your guns,” said Ross.

  MacCready frowned. “Are ye daft? Of course, I haven’t gotten rid of me babies.”

  But then MacCready grew serious. He spoke as if he were talking to himself. “I suppose he knew you were comin’.”

  “What?”

  “The Brit,” said MacCready. “Commodore somethin’.”

  Ross put down his tankard with a thud. “Blake was it?” he asked excitedly.

  “Yeah, that’s right. He left ye somethin’ too.” MacCready disappeared into the kitchen. Ross heard pots and pans clanking around, a tremendous crash, and a series of grunts. MacCready returned with a letter folded and stuck closed by a wax seal.

  Ross glanced over his shoulder at his men whose revelry seemed to know no bounds. Then he broke the seal, opened the letter, and began to read.

  A moment later, Ross looked up and asked, “How long ago was this?”

  “A fortnight,” MacCready answered. “Maybe more.”

  “He’s not been back since?”

  “Nay, Declan,” MacCready replied. “What’s the matter? Ye look a might worried.”

  Ross glanced at Blake’s letter and asked, “MacCready, can you still fight?”

  “Aye,” he replied, puffing up his chest. “Ye want me to show ye?”

  “Do you have a ship?”

  “An old galleon,” MacCready said. “Not much to speak of, but she’ll sail. Declan, what’s goin’ on?”

  Ross swallowed. He turned, caught Jack’s eye, and motioned for him to join them. “It’s Thorne.” Ross saw MacCready’s surprise. “No, he isn’t dead. And he’s planning something huge for England. I don’t know what, but knowing that Blake’s gone after him and hasn’t returned . . . makes me nervous.”

  “Thorne, eh?” MacCready looked like he’d just eaten some bad haggis. “I owe him somethin’, I do. Declan, say the word, and I’ll get me boat.”

  “I’m saying the word, Mac,” said Ross.

  “Thorne’s holed up on Gotland Island,” said Jack.

  “Sweden?” MacCready raised his eyebrows. “That’s new.”

  “Yes, and I don’t like it,” said Ross. “Cutlass Jack, you, and I will sail after Bartholomew Thorne. But, Mac, Thorne has slipped out of my nets far too often. Not this time . . . this time his escape will mean a lot of blood. I can feel it.”

  MacCready nodded grimly. He thought for a moment and then said, “Declan, why don’t ye visit the clans? There’s good men—fightin’ men—and sailors besides. I daresay there’d be more than a few willin’ to cross blades with the likes a’ Thorne.”

  “Ah, Mac, bless your curly head!” Ross grabbed MacCready’s head and kissed him on the crown. “That’s brilliant, but we need to go fast. Round up as many able men as will come and any ships you can find. Schooners, sloops—I don’t care as long as they’re seaworthy.”

  “When do we sail?”

  “By sundown,” said Ross. He breathed out a heavy sigh. “Can we do this, Mac?”

  “Aye,” he said. “That we can.”

  MacCready threw his apron in the kitchen, muttered a few words of apology, and ran out the door. Then Ross turned to his crew. The moment the men saw Ross’s face, the merriment ended. “Where we b’ going now?” Stede asked.

  “Gotland Island,” Ross replied. He told them of Commodore Blake’s message and of his plan. There wasn’t a word of complaint. Each man took a last bite or a last sip. Mr. Hack put a few fried potatoes, three pieces of bacon, and a couple of biscuits in a handkerchief for later. The procession back down that cobblestone hill was far less cheery than the one up it earlier that day. Hearing from Bellamy that Thorne was still alive had been one thing. That devilish man’s claims could be discounted . . . even disbelieved. But Commodore Blake was a man of his word. If he said Thorne lived, then it was so. And with Bartholomew Thorne still alive, the blood tide would soon begin to rise.

  26

  SHADOWS

  Vexing day! Bartholomew Thorne could scarce believe his misfortune. In just a few short hours, the Raukar fleet was due to sail for England. He’d decided to take the Raven’s Revenge out to sea . . . just a short venture to put the ship through its paces one last time and to consider the unanswered questions that still plagued his mind.

  And not twenty miles out to sea . . . the wind died. It had not diminished to a light breeze. No, that would have been manageable if not disappointing. But the air had gone completely still. This was not uncommon in the doldrums closer to the equator, but this far north, and at this time of the year, it was virtually unheard of. Worsening an already horrible situation, a strange chill had fallen over the area. A dense vapor cloud rose up from the water and crippled the visibility. Through the haze, the sun hung overhead, just an angry red ball seemingly stripped of its warmth.

  A young ship’s mate from the Talon hesitantly crossed the deck. He was scarred from one corner of his mouth to his ear and spoke with a noticeable slur. “Sir?”

  “What is it, Mister Jay?” Thorne rasped.

  Jay knew the others were watching from several half-open hatches along the deck, but he’d come this far. He’d have to go through with it or face never-ending jeers. Not that a sorry one of them have the courage to ask, he thought. Then he said, “Well, sir, the wind hasn’t stirred a whisper. And me and some of the others were thinkin’ we might take the lull and sample some of that mead the Gotlanders gave us.”

  “Thought you might sample the mead?” Thorne echoed, his face impossible to read. To Jay’s surprise, he said, “Go ahead, Mister Jay. Since we are evidently not going anywhere soon, you and the lads take that drink.”

  Astounded by the captain’s generosity, Jay began to walk back to the hatch. Thorne wheeled around so fast, Jay didn’t see it coming. An iron grip clutched Mr. Jay’s throat, and he felt his body lifted clear off the deck. Thorne slammed Jay hard against the port rail and pushed his head over and down as if he might let him fall over the side. “You take that drink, Mister Jay, and it’ll be the last thing to wet your tongue in this life . . . except for blood, that is. You and the rest of the crew will stay at your stations—and stay alert—until we make port back in Sigvard Bay. Do you understand me, Mister Jay?”

  Jay couldn’t speak. Hollow gagging noises escaped from his half-strangled throat. Thorne released him at last, and Mr. Jay slumped to the deck. Guthrum and Brandir cast disdainful looks and laughed. Thorne watched as the impudent deck hand crawled slowly away and slunk into a hatch.

  “Captain Thorne!” a voice called from high on the mast.

  “What is it, Mister Wren?”

  “Something there, sir,” Wren, the lookout, called back. “A shadow on the water . . . aft. I . . . I think it’s a ship.”

  “Ready the port cannons!” Thorne rasped. “Brandir, ready the dragon necks.” He gave the wheel to Mr. Teach. “Bring the ship about.”

  “But, sir, there’s no wind,” Teach replied.

  Thorne ignored his quartermaster and clambered up onto the poop deck to stare out over the still waters. “Mister Tarber, are you sure? I don’t see anything.”

  “Yes, sir!” he called back. “It was there in the mist. Then it—wait! There she is. But I don’t think we need worry ’bout the cannons. It’s just a skiff.”

  The mist parted and a dark, single-sailed craft emerged. It was twenty-feet long with a small block cabin and a narrow sail rigged like the
blade of a knife on a thin mast. Though Thorne saw that the vessel approaching posed no immediate threat, he felt a strange gravity in the pit of his stomach. He did not belay the order to ready the cannons.

  Thorne squinted. Was there someone aboard? Shadows moved out of the cabin onto its small deck. The thinning mist confirmed two hooded figures standing by the mast as the craft came closer. No one seemed to be rowing the small ship. Thorne looked up into the sails of the Raven’s Revenge. They remained lifeless and still. How then, does he sail?

  “Hold!” yelled a black-bearded deck hand named Davies. He and several of the Raukar leaned over the starboard rail and aimed muskets toward the water. “State your business or be dead where you stand.”

  A voice came up from the water. “It is for business that I have come,” it said. Muskets wavered, and men stepped backward from the rail a pace as if they’d suddenly lost their balance. Thorne heard the voice even from where he stood, and it seemed to him that the chill in the air sharpened.

  But Davies stood fast. He pulled back the hammer on his musket. “Advance no further!”

  “Won’t you cast aside your weapon and seek a rope ladder?” came the voice again. “The chill is no good for an old man. My associate and I have important matters to discuss with Captain Thorne.”

  “Sir?” Davies said. He stepped aside as Thorne came to the rail.

  Bartholomew Thorne looked down. A hood hid the man’s face in the small craft below. “I am Bartholomew Thorne. What business have you with me?”

  “Much.” The man said lowering his hood to reveal a sallow scalp with shrouds of wispy white hair. But in spite of the obvious signs of age, the man bore a powerful, penetrating visage. His brow was low and prominent. It overshadowed dark, depthless eyes that reminded Thorne of staring down well shafts. His nose was misshapen and pointed on the end. He grinned up at Thorne and revealed a mouth more full of cankers than teeth.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Thorne asked. “If you have the plague, you’d best—”