Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “Unwholesome eating habits . . . nothing more,” he replied, and he began to chew on a brown root.

  Thorne began to recognize the voice, and it must have shown on his face.

  “Do you know me at last? . . . Then, Captain Thorne, have your man lower the ladder.”

  Thorne nodded to Davies, who hurled a rope ladder over the rail. And with surprising agility, the old man climbed aboard. The second man climbed up as well but did not remove his hood.

  The Merchant stood before Thorne and inclined his head slightly. “I told you we’d meet again soon,” he said.

  “How did you find me?” Thorne asked.

  “Eyes in many places,” he replied.

  “But . . . your ship?”

  “Oh no . . . that skiff?” He laughed quietly. “We sailed to meet you in my fastest barque, the Perdition’s Gate. But in this dense fog, I did not want to risk sending us both to the depths. My ship and crew wait for me to the west.”

  Thorne regarded him strangely. He looked over the Merchant’s shoulder out into the murky white. No sign nor shadow of another ship. And how did it sail? The wind couldn’t be any stronger a few hundred yards away—no sooner had the thought entered his mind than a stiff wind kicked up.

  “What marvelous fortune,” said the Merchant. “Now, Captain Thorne, we shall go below and discuss our . . . business.”

  The ship was unlike any Hopper had ever experienced. Still it had its storage space, its stacks of crates, and its nooks. Earlier that morning he’d gotten the gumption to traverse the mooring lines . . . and just in time as the Raven’s Revenge left port not fifteen minutes later. He’d stayed hidden in the darkness behind a stack of crates containing . . . cabbage, by the smell of them. Ignoring the stench, Hopper chewed on a piece of jerk beef he’d brought with him and thought about his plan. He knew Commodore Blake and Lady Dolphin had been brought aboard as prisoners, not guests. It was likely they’d be kept in the cellblock. Right, Hopper told himself. And just where is that?

  Probably the lowest deck, Hopper figured. Down with the rats and bilge water.

  Hopper decided that was where he would look. But, of course, he’d have to navigate three decks down from where he was—all without being seen. Fortunately, there was a hatch only a few feet away. Hopper found it clear, but rather than climbing down the ladder, he swung from the nearest rafter into a corner behind a barrel. What was that sound of squeaks and groans? Then, when he peeked around the barrel, he understood. He’d descended to a gun deck, but one of the ones where crewmen slept when they were off. Hopper figured there had to be more than a hundred hammocks slung from the ceiling. They swayed back and forth—a few of them occupied—and made the terrible ruckus he’d heard.

  Looking for the hatch, Hopper darted in and out of portside cannon bays. Finally, with about four more bays to go, he spotted a hatch . . . but it was on the starboard side of the deck. He couldn’t walk between the dozens of crewmen sleeping the way the hammocks were swinging. To get across, he’d have to crawl beneath them and hope there was enough room.

  Hopper went on all fours, crawling like a bug beneath the ever-swaying hammocks. A couple of the hammocks were slung so low that Hopper had to lie flat on his stomach to get across. He made it under that one and was almost to the hatch when he heard a burst of short snorts above, followed by mumbles, followed by snorting laughter. Hopper looked up and saw an upside-down bearded face hanging over the edge of a hammock. The eyes blinked open suddenly and fixed on Hopper. The man yelled. Hopper shrieked, scurried to the hatch, and disappeared.

  The sun cast long shadows from the masts of twenty-one ships leaving Edinburgh, Scotland. Declan Ross’s man-of-war, Cutlass Jack’s xebec, and Musketoon MacCready’s old galleon led the way, followed by a hodgepodge of sloops, schooners, and even a ketch or two. More than a dozen of Scotland’s clans were represented in this new fleet. Declan looked back on his kinsmen with pride. “They’ve no special love for England,” he said to Stede. “But still they left their fishing nets, their plowshares, their families, and their land.”

  “There comes a time to fight, mon,” Stede replied, patting his thunder gun in the holster at his side.

  “You’ve come to specify your terms,” said Thorne sitting at his desk and staring across the vast tabletop to the Merchant and the still-hooded man behind him. The ship’s hull muted the mournful cries of the sea birds that had appeared when the haze burned off. The Raven’s Revenge rolled ponderously on increasing swells.

  “You have your fleet,” said the Merchant at last. “You are just days away from the victory you’ve longed for. Now is the time.” The Merchant reached beneath his black cloak and removed a long scroll. The parchment was watermarked, frayed at the edges, and sealed with a blob of blood-red wax. He handed the scroll to Thorne and said, “Read it, but not aloud.”

  Thorne raised an eyebrow, received the scroll, and glanced curiously at the man who stood behind the Merchant. Then he broke the seal and unraveled the parchment. As Thorne began to read, the room grew increasingly quiet. Nearly halfway through the text, Thorne’s breathing became audible, raspy, and thick. “A substantial sum,” Thorne muttered. He continued reading. “Hmmm . . . I didn’t know they were there . . . hmmm . . . I’d do that free of charge.” He laughed quietly at that.

  Then Thorne’s eyes fixed on some part of the text and narrowed. He stopped breathing and clutched the edges of the parchment. He looked up at the Merchant and asked, “Is this a joke?”

  The Merchant waved his hand dismissively. “I assure you I am serious.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I know you can do what few men can.” The Merchant’s dark expression grew eager. “These are the terms, Bartholomew Thorne. All that is left is to sign.” The Merchant reached into his wide sleeve and pulled out his long dagger. He dragged it slowly across his palm and let the blood dribble onto Thorne’s desk. Then he handed the dagger to Thorne.

  Thorne cut across his palm, next to five previous scars. He opened his desk drawer and removed two quill pens. He gave one to the Merchant. Each man dipped his pen into the pool of his own blood. Then each man signed the parchment.

  “Done and done,” said the Merchant as he whisked the contract from the table. He examined the signatures for a moment. “Now that we’ve completed our agreement, I will show you what I’ve brought to sweeten the deal.”

  The Merchant stood, stepped near to the hooded man, and slowly revealed his identity. Thorne stood, nearly knocking over his chair. The young man standing next to the Merchant was Griffin Thorne, Bartholomew Thorne’s son. The Merchant removed Cat’s gag and said, “Go on, boy . . . say hello to your father.”

  Cat said nothing. A hundred images flooded his mind: whips, pistols, blood, Dominica, the Isle of Swords. Cat wanted to run from the room, but he stood his ground.

  “He was working with the Brethren,” said the Merchant, “trying to find me. I thought you might like a chance to reform him.”

  Thorne spat. “I should have just drowned him the day he was born. He’s of no use to me.”

  “Come now,” said the Merchant, playing his hand carefully. “Young Griffin is a clever lad . . . and a gifted swordsman. Surely, with the proper motivation, he could be led to see things your way.”

  “He’s worthless,” said Thorne, his voice deep and raspy. He was getting upset, just as the Merchant had hoped. And from the look on Cat’s face, his father’s words were having just the impact the Merchant was looking to find.

  Cat held no love for this man, but somehow, hearing these words now cut into him like long jagged blades. The anger he had struggled with so often kindled into a flash fire. Cat saw the Merchant’s dagger, its tip already bloody, lying within reach on the desk. “I think,” said the Merchant, picking up the dagger, “this should be put away for now.”

  Thorne stood up. “I want him dead before we leave for England.”

  “It shall be done as you command,” said the Merchant, smi
ling, for his gambit had paid off. He put the gag back in Cat’s mouth and tightened it. “You will never see Griffin Thorne again.”

  Dolphin sat in the darkest corner of her cell and wept. Her husband was two cells away and looked on helplessly. “The way he questioned me,” she cried. “That painting . . . NO! It cannot be true.” She looked through the bars and shadows to her husband. Her eyes were huge and pleading. “Tell me, Brand, tell me it cannot be true.”

  His silence was thunderous. “You knew then?” she said, her words heavy with accusation.

  “I did not know until we stood in Thorne’s presence,” he said. “But I began to suspect from your father’s journals.”

  “Why didn’t I see it?”

  “You couldn’t have,” he replied gently. “I once spoke to Declan Ross about Thorne. I wanted to know what drove the man . . . to better understand him so that I could capture him. Ross told me how Thorne’s wife had been killed in a fire. But Ross never knew there was a child. I don’t think even Thorne knew that the child had survived.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I saw the way he looked at you,” said Blake. “There was most definitely recognition. But even with all those questions about your age . . . your parents, I daresay he still doesn’t know for sure.”

  “It were a shadow wid eyes!” Skinner cried. A small group of deck hands—Thorne’s and Raukar—stood around him in a circle.

  “A big rat, like as not,” said Barnabas, who went back to swabbing the deck.

  “Were not!” argued Skinner. “Lessun ye’ve seen rats wid arms and legs like a great big toad!”

  “It was a toad now?” asked one of the Raukar.

  Skinner growled. “I know what I saw.”

  “Don’t be so stupid,” said Hangman Pete, the ranking officer on the deck. “You just hadn’t woke up yet. But seein’s you are now, why don’t you help Barnabas get this deck clean.”

  Two decks below, Hopper continued his search. Just as he found the hatch to the lowest deck, the ship started to move again.

  27

  ST. ALFRED’S DAY

  The morning of May 21 dawned bright and warm in London. The port was already jammed with military vessels and merchants alike. Miles of the Thames River were near clogged with boat traffic. No one wanted to miss the celebration of St. Alfred’s Day. As unpopular as King George was for his governing of England, he had managed to earn a reputation for throwing unforgettable parties. In fact, preparations for this year’s event had begun the day after last year’s party.

  The bulk of the British navy had already moored. Brigantines like the Liverpool, the Bristol, and the Valiant, as well as first-rate ships of the line like the Gallant, the Union Jack, and the Robert Elliott were the latest naval vessels to anchor. Under the king’s orders, merchant ships positively heaped with casks and barrels delivered their payloads to each of the navy ships. Commodores, captains, mates, and crews—especially those who had been out to sea for extended periods of time—were thrilled by the prospects of making merry and of spending time at home.

  By late in the afternoon, a special barge was towed out into the center of the harbor. After dark, fireworks purchased from the Far East and from around the globe would be launched from this vast platform. All of London waited to celebrate one of England’s most noble and effective warriors. But none of the revelers knew that the city would have dire need of men like St. Alfred that night.

  Anne was at the helm as the Constantine drifted into Sigvard Bay. They’d searched most of Gotland’s ports and small harbors for the Perdition’s Gate, but with no success. When Anne saw what was waiting for them in Sigvard Bay, she said, “Uh-oh.”

  “Turn the ship around!” urged Father Brun. “Turn around!”

  “It’s too late,” said Anne. “They’ve seen us.”

  And she was right. Three tall ships broke off from the small fleet gathered in the bay and approached the Constantine. But they did not fire.

  “Are any of those the Merchant’s barque?” asked Father Brun.

  Anne squinted. “No,” she replied, her voice detached and dreamy. “But I think I know one of those ships!” Then she leaped in the air. “It’s my da’s ship! And there he is!”

  Moments later Declan Ross came aboard the Constantine, and Anne melted into his arms. “Oh, Da!” she cried, and tears drenched his shoulder. “Cat . . . Cat’s gone. The Merchant drowned him—Da, Cat died to save my life.”

  Ross felt his own eyes burn, and he hugged his daughter. “Good lad,” he whispered. In many ways, Declan Ross felt he’d just lost a son.

  After exchanging stories of grief and victory, as well as news of how they each came to be there, it became clear that decisions had to be made.

  “The Merchant and Bartholomew Thorne together?” muttered Father Brun. “I cannot imagine worse news.”

  “It gets much worse,” said Ross. “We captured a young woman fishing on the shore here at Sigvard Bay.”

  “You captured a woman for fishing?” asked Anne.

  “No,” said Stede. “We didn’t mind that her b’ fishing. It was when she up and tried to put a spear in us that we nabbed her.”

  “She was very resistant at first,” said Hack. “Wouldn’t tell us anything.”

  “That is, until we invited Red Eye to assist us,” said Ross. “She took one look at him and told us everything we needed to know.”

  “Red Eye,” Anne said, feigning accusation, “what did you do?”

  “Not to worry, Anne, I just cleaned my teeth,” Red Eye said, shrugging, “. . . with my dagger.”

  “We learned that these Norsemen, the Raukar she called them, have built a fleet of some sixty ships,” Ross said. They have now sailed with Thorne and the Merchant to Britain. And, Anne, she was not some ‘poor’ woman. When we finished questioning her, she spat on my feet, looked scornfully at our fleet, and told us we were all going to burn. I’m not sure what she meant, but I know England needs us.”

  “His terms were quite extraordinary,” said Thorne. He stood by his quartermaster as the Raven’s Revenge drifted on steady winds down the English Channel.

  “I’ll bet he asked for thirty percent of the new trade profits, didn’t he?” asked Mr. Teach.

  “Forty,” said Thorne.

  “Forty?! What’s a blighter like him need with so much?”

  “There was more,” said Thorne. “After the British are defeated, he wants us to sail to Saba. Apparently the Brethren have their stronghold there.”

  “He wants us to finish off the monks too, eh?” Teach laughed. “Well, that ought not to be too hard.”

  “No, not with the dragon necks,” said Thorne. “And now that we know where the Brethren are, I’m only too happy to carry out the Merchant’s wishes. But his third term is something of a mystery. He wants me to kill him.”

  “What?!”

  “The Merchant clearly stipulated that he wants me to kill him, as soon as he’s had time to train an apprentice to his vocation.”

  “Are you goin’ to do it?” Teach asked.

  Thorne crossed the quarterdeck in three long strides. As he descended to the main deck, he said, “The contract is agreed upon in blood. I have no choice.”

  “Where are you going, sir?” asked Teach. “We’ll hit the mouth of the Thames in an hour.”

  “I am going down below,” Thorne replied. “There is someone I want to talk to in the cellblock.”

  His long fingernails scraped across the cell bars. “Awaken, young Griffin,” said the Merchant. “Your destiny calls for you.”

  Cat lay on a cot at the far end of the cell. “Leave me be!” he yelled.

  “No . . . ,” said the Merchant. “If I did what you ask, you’d be dead already. Your father is quite set on your fate, I’m afraid. But I believe that Bartholomew, in his willfulness, lacks vision. He looks at you and sees nothing worth saving. I look at you and see history in the making. Think on that, Cat . . . history!”

  “H
istory in blood,” Cat snapped back.

  “Ever it has been,” replied the Merchant. “Every king, every queen—even Scotland’s beloved Robert the Bruce—had to splash a little blood to remake the world. The British, the French, the Spanish together have waged war upon war, spilling enough blood to fill the river upon which we sail.”

  “That’s different,” said Cat, his anger building. He got up and went near to the bars. “That’s war.”

  “Is it?” The Merchant laughed. “And why do these nations fight? Over thrones, over tariffs, over plots of land? They merely want to stake a claim in this world. And that, lad . . . is precisely what we are doing. Tonight, Cat, in just a few hours, the world will change again. There’ll be a new ship to sail, and I’m offering you the wheel.”

  Cat’s arms shot through the bars, and before he knew it, Cat had one hand grasping the Merchant’s cloak, the other hand clutching the Merchant’s throat. Cat felt a sharp prick at his stomach and realized the Merchant’s dagger was poised to stab him in the gut. Cat slowly released his grip. “You see,” said the Merchant, “you were born a man of passion, born a man of action. Violence is a means to an end, that’s all. And you are a master of violence.”

  The Merchant went to leave the cell deck, but hesitated a moment at the first step. “We will talk again soon . . . after London burns. But the choice is simple: rule the world as you see fit . . . or die knowing what might have been. Either way . . . much blood will be shed.”

  The fireworks display had humble beginnings. Three shots left the barge in the middle of the harbor—Whump, whump, whump!—and raced into the night sky. Hundreds of feet above the Thames and the hundred-plus ships anchored there, the shells burst into sparkling tendrils of blue, red, and white. A collective roar of approval came from the people gathered on the docks, on shore, and on the ships.

  Having removed their hats and unbuttoned their vests, commodores and captains sat down on the decks to watch the show with the men they commanded. Each had a mug or tankard in hand and a barrel not too far away, for this night was made for celebration, not circumstance. Even King George watched the display. He reclined in a chair atop the gatehouse of St. James Palace while a platoon of servants brought him assorted beverages and delicacies. King George wanted to be sure the fireworks display had been worth the gold he’d spent.