Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  And it truly was. Soon the sky over the Port of London was ablaze with sparkling majesty. Rockets streaked into the night, exploded with deafening thunder, and rained blinking flashes of color. Huge blossoms of purple and gold bloomed overhead, and whistling white comets raced this way and that.

  Closest to the fireworks barge, Commodore James Hawthorne stood on the deck of the one hundred-gun ship Gallant and raised his tankard in salute of an especially fine series of rockets. Sunbursts of orange, red, and yellow fanned out in all directions, some seeming to come right toward his ship.

  Hawthorne lowered his tankard and started to yell, but it was too late. The deck of the Gallant flashed red as something burst overhead. Fire rained down from above, igniting the masts and bundled sails. Hawthorne and a dozen of his men were killed instantly from the incinerating heat. Others were bathed in liquid fire and dove overboard only to die horribly as the water could not immediately quench the flames.

  Something had gone dreadfully wrong with the fireworks display, most thought, as fiery shells exploded again and again right above the ships. Already ten vessels were ablaze, their crews leaping overboard or burned alive. Shrieks of terror went up from ship and shore, and all looked to the fireworks barge and wondered when the barrage might end. Yet the rockets from the barge continued to go up, continued to burst like flashes of lightning high in the sky. And in those flickers of light, the people of London finally saw . . . finally understood. For in those intermittent white flashes, sails appeared in the distance. Hundreds of sails. The mouth of the harbor teemed with rows of attacking ships—ominous, shadowy vessels erupting with cannon fire.

  Fiery projectiles ignited the ships trapped in the river creating a floating inferno. And soon, the enemy’s projectiles began to burst above the shore, raining fire on multitudes of screaming, fleeing people. As the invading ships grew nearer, they fired their cannon shots deeper into the city. Wooden buildings were engulfed in seconds. Fire trickled down stone turrets and columns and danced on brick battlements. Mantled by the blackest clouds of smoke and mirrored in the now-turbulent waters of the Thames, brilliant white flames flared and turned angry red as they reached a hundred feet into the air.

  Not since the great fire of 1666 had the city endured such a conflagration. But the Great Fire of London that claimed 80 percent of the city in 1666 was not nearly as deadly as this one. Then people had warning and fled into the highlands or in boats into the Thames. This attack, there was no warning, and the river offered no escape.

  The British ships that were not abandoned opened fire, as did the cannon batteries on shore. But their shots were rushed and poorly aimed. Few found their mark.

  “Hit them again!” Thorne ordered, his voice thick and raspy. “Brandir, signal the fleet.”

  “But, sir,” said Brandir, “we must save some for the monks.”

  “Monks?” Guthrum harrumphed. “Christians? They will fall easier than Västervik!”

  “Still,” said Thorne, thoughtfully rubbing the scar on his hand. “I will not underestimate them . . . especially since I do not know their defenses. Brandir, signal one more volley with the dragon necks. But keep our other cannons firing. Blast their vaunted navy to splinters!”

  Brandir left his post at the starboard rail and raced to the poop deck. There, he unhooded three lanterns: a yellow, a white, and a red. First, he held up the white and waited for the next ship in line to signal likewise. Then he held up the red lantern once, followed by three quick bobs with the yellow lantern. The signal went from ship to ship around the fleet, and Thorne’s commands were followed.

  “Mister Teach, go down below decks!” Thorne commanded. “I want our guests to see their city burn.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Guthrum, ready the Berserkers,” Thorne commanded. “I want you to lead them into the city. Take the palace, and bring me the king’s head.”

  The massive Raukar warrior’s eyes gleamed. He drew his cold blade and exclaimed, “HRAH!”

  Finally, Hopper had a chance. All but two of the guards had left the cell deck to watch the action unfolding topside. Hopper had hidden himself between stacks of crates close to the ladder up to the next deck. He’d been waiting for one of the remaining two guards to move close enough. And at last, one did. Hopper had never done anything like this before. Even during his occupation of the English fort at New Providence, Hopper had never harmed anyone to get what he needed. But this was different. Hopper couldn’t fight them, and he needed their keys. So Hopper clutched the small plank he’d found in a scrap pile on the third deck. He aimed for the back of the soldier’s head and prayed he had enough strength to knock the man out.

  WHACK! Hopper hit the guard as hard as he’d ever hit anything in his life. The man groaned and fell in a heap by the crates. The second he struck, Hopper ducked back in the shadows. The other guard came running and bent over his fallen comrade. Swinging the board like he used to swing an axe to split wood, Hopper unleashed another powerful blow—this time on the crown of the surprised guard’s head. The man fell without a sound—right on top of the other guard.

  Hopper was out of his crevice like a shot. He didn’t know if more guards were just outside of the room and on their way. Hopper grabbed the guard’s keys and ran to the cell where Lady Dolphin stood at the bars. “Hopper!” she exclaimed.

  From two cells down, Commodore Blake said, “Of all the unlooked-for . . . Hopper, we thought you’d been killed.”

  “Nay, Guv’nor,” said Hopper. “I’m a slippery one.”

  “You are at that,” said Dolphin, embracing him as soon as her cell was open. They worked the keys in Blake’s cell door, and soon he was free as well.

  “C’mon, Guv’nor, my lady,” urged Hopper. “There’s a balcony window in the captain’s quarters, and he ain’t there.”

  “Hopper,” Blake said with admiration. “You’ve been in Thorne’s quarters?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, enjoying their respect. “I’ve been all over the ship looking for you two. Now, c’mon. They’ll be coming for us, and that no mistake.”

  “A moment.” Blake took the swords from the two fallen guards and handed one to Dolphin. “I have a feeling we might be needing these.”

  The first thing Edward Teach saw when he entered the cell deck was a blur of motion at the other end of the deck. Then he saw the two guards out cold. Last, he saw the empty cells. Teach had no idea how the two captives had managed their escape, but he had the certain feeling that it would be his own head rolling if he didn’t get them back.

  Teach thought frantically. Where would they go? To the cutters? No, not with fifty crewmen on deck. That would be suicide. He thought they might try to duck out of a cannon bay, but again . . . so many guards. Teach’s mouth dropped open. There was one place they could escape from. Yes, Teach thought. That has to be where they’ve gone.

  Ascending the decks without being seen had not been easy. Twice, Blake and Dolphin had to use their swords along the way, but at last they made it to Thorne’s quarters. The three fugitives charged into the room and closed the door behind them.

  Hopper and Blake ran past a huge wardrobe, around Thorne’s desk, and cranked open the gallery window. Dolphin stopped in the middle of the room and stared at the portrait of Heather Thorne. “I really do look just like her,” she said.

  “This is no time for a family reunion,” Blake said, stepping up to the window sill. “Dolphin, get—”

  The gunshot was so sudden and loud that Hopper screamed. None of them had seen Edward Teach step out of the wardrobe. The shot hit the commodore and, in spite of Hopper’s efforts to grab him, Blake fell from the window, smacking the water hard, several stories below.

  Sword raised, Dolphin started toward Teach—but he had a second pistol, and he pointed it at her head. “Drop your weapon!” he commanded. Dolphin pulled up short. Her eyes darted frantically. She couldn’t speak. Trembling, she still hesitated to drop her sword.

  Teach cocked the
hammer back on the pistol. “Drop your weapon now!”

  Hopper looked out of the gallery window, down into the water. He saw Blake’s body floating there, a red stain spreading into the water near his shoulder. Hopper looked back at Dolphin, still holding the sword. He didn’t know what to do. Either way, he’d most likely fail.

  Then Teach noticed Hopper at the window. “Don’t you move!” Teach yelled. But Hopper knew he would not take the gun off Dolphin. Hopper’s eyes met Lady Dolphin’s for a heartbeat, and then he jumped.

  Just hours before dawn, Guthrum returned from the raiding party. He and the Berserkers came aboard the Raven’s Revenge and found Thorne in a perilous mood. “What is your report?” Thorne rasped.

  Guthrum explained, “The Port of London belongs to us. Much of the city fled into Stratford and Hampstead. We chose not to follow. The British flag has been torn down from the palace, but we did not find King George.”

  “Arrgh-ah!” Thorne marched up to Guthrum and stared him in the eye. “I told you to bring me his head!”

  But Guthrum did not shy away from Thorne. “I suspect King George has long planned a secret escape should he need a hasty exit from Britain. He is most likely on his way to Germany now. Do you now want us to invade Hanover?”

  Thorne’s face reddened, and, for a moment, he considered killing Guthrum where he stood. But, no, the rest of the Raukar might quail at that. “Very well,” said Thorne, his voice a biting whisper. “Now get back on board the cutter. You will be responsible for maintaining control of the Port of London. I will take the rest of our forces to Saba and deal with the monks. You’ll have twenty ships. You can hold on to the port until I return, can’t you?”

  Guthrum’s eyes blazed. “Yes, Captain Thorne, I can.”

  28

  LIBERATION DAY

  London burned. From the docks to the depths of the city, every building had been scorched or utterly incinerated. Thick black smoke bubbled up from the wreckage and was sheered toward the west by the strong winds that had kicked up. The harbor was a smoking graveyard of ships. Hulls and burned-out skeletons of all manner of sailing vessels protruded from the murky, discolored water. They’d seen the smoke from ten miles up the Thames River, and that had led them to fear the worst for London. But nothing could have prepared Declan Ross, his crew, and his fleet for the smoldering carnage they would behold when they arrived in the port. As they surveyed the damage, they noticed several ships still afloat and seemingly unscathed from the battle. These were strange ships, long and thin, with rows of round shields hanging on their rails.

  Ross knew they weren’t British. He didn’t say a word. He simply looked grimly at Stede and nodded. Then Ross went to the rail of the quarterdeck and saw Hack and Slash by the mainmast. Ross pointed to the sky. Hack and Slash went right to work pulling away at a long rope wound in a halyard. The black flag of the Sea Wolf rose high in the sky.

  St. Pierre saw the flag go up, drew a long saber, and yelled, “All cannons, FIRE!!” Cutlass Jack’s xebec and Musketoon MacCready’s galleon opened fire as well. Even the small Scottish sloops and schooners—none of which had more than ten cannons—unleashed their fury as well. The Wolf fleet’s first volley sent more than two hundred cannonballs careening toward the Raukar ships before even one of the Norse ships fired back.

  One Raukar warship was struck three times in the same center section of the hull. It split in half and began to sink. Another ship caught an eighteen-pounder straight into its fore keel. The cannonball blasted in directly under the bowsprit and struck the mast below decks, cracking its base. The mast fell and tore up half the deck in the process. But the most devastating damage came from the cannonballs that fell on the main decks where the dragon necks and ammunition were kept. And that was the greatest flaw in the Raukar’s eldregn weapon. In battle, the weapon had to be kept on the upper deck. When the Wolf fleet’s cannonballs struck a stockpile of eldregn canisters, it resulted in absolute ruin.

  One Raukar ship disappeared in a huge reddish fireball. The very air where the ship had been seemed to burn, and the water in a large circle was layered with liquid fire. Ross watched with fascination as the wind carried the fireball into the mast of another Raukar ship. The sails kindled immediately, and before the hapless sailors could leap from their decks, tendrils of fire found their own stockpiles of eldregn, and that ship exploded as well.

  The hunters had suddenly become the hunted. But Guthrum was a skilled seaman, and he led a counterattack. He’d seen the wind shift. And he’d seen what it had done with the eldregn. So, as his ship sailed behind the burning wreckage, he ordered his men to take the eldregn canisters to the lowest deck. Then he fired a salvo through the smoke at the Wolf fleet. Guthrum sank two of the Scottish sloops before Kalik spotted him from the crow’s-nest on the Bruce.

  “He be behind the frigit sheep!” Kalik screamed down excitedly.

  “What?” yelled Red Eye.

  Hack squinted. “I think he said there’s a frigid sheep.”

  “Nonsense,” countered Slash. “He’s simply complaining that his behind is cold from sitting up in the crow’s-nest.”

  “I said he be hiding behind the frigate ship!” Kalik glared down at Red Eye and the others. He tried once more to explain. “The burning ship over there. That’s where he be!?”

  Red Eye at last understood. He ran across the deck, leaped down the hatch, and ran to a cannon. “Loaded?” he asked a team of gunnery men.

  They nodded. Red Eye aimed the cannon himself. Then he lit the fuse and watched. His shot sailed straight into the billowing smoke. He had no idea if he’d struck home, but the shot had gone exactly where he’d meant it to go. “Keep firing in just that spot!” he told the crew. And then he went from cannon bay to cannon bay, aiming for the same spot.

  Hopper pulled with all his might but couldn’t drag Commodore Blake any farther behind the bulkhead on shore. They were both spent from the arduous, maddeningly slow swim. If the enemy found them, Hopper knew they’d have no strength to resist or flee. Sudden cannon blasts sounded out on the water. The last volley had fired over an hour before, so Hopper looked up over the edge of the bulkhead. “Look, Commodore,” said Hopper. “Someone’s firing on the enemy!”

  Blake sat up weakly. “It’s Ross . . . thank God.” Then he lay back down behind the bulkhead wall. Hopper clapped as the Raukar took a beating from the Wolf fleet.

  A cannonball crushed the helm, leaving Guthrum holding the detached ship’s wheel in his hands. And suddenly, it seemed to rain cannonballs. One struck the mainmast, which toppled off into the river. Another obliterated the forecastle and bowsprit. Then, just as one of the Raukar deck hands was about to ask his commander for orders, Guthrum was blown away by a direct hit. The only evidence he’d been there at all was the ship’s wheel spinning on the deck.

  The Raukar’s London fleet was decimated by the fierce onslaught, but it was not their custom to surrender. For the Raukar, dying in battle was the quickest and surest way to gain Valhalla. But they were now outgunned—and in a poor defensive position. Some of the Raukar captains began throwing their eldregn canisters overboard to eliminate the explosive threat. One by one, the Raukar ships exploded or sank. The last vessel to remain was the commandeered Oxford, and the Wolf fleet had it surrounded.

  Ross turned to Red Eye. “We’ll keep them busy with cannon fire,” he said. “I want you to take a cutter. Bring Jules, Saint Pierre, and . . .” Ross scanned the deck. “Take Hack and Slash too. Take the Oxford . . . intact if you can. And see if they’ve taken Blake as prisoner.”

  After the cutter launched, Stede took Ross’s arm and said, “This can’t b’ the whole fleet, mon.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Ross. “And they don’t fight like Thorne’s in command here. Only twenty ships . . . and no Thorne. Where are they?”

  On board the Perdition’s Gate, already sailing with all speed across the Atlantic, Cat had fallen from his cot to the cell floor. The ship rolled on h
eavy swells, and the wind had made the passage rougher than usual. But Cat had not woken up. He merely stirred in his sleep as he dreamed. He was back in Dominica, and Thorne was leading him down that familiar, dreadful set of stairs below ground. Cat watched again as his father unscrewed the spiked head of his bleeding stick, transforming it into a flail weapon even more fierce and destructive than a cat-o’-nine-tails. Cat watched with revulsion as Thorne approached the prisoners chained to the ceiling and floor. This time Cat heard the blows each time his father swung. He heard the screams, the moaning agonies, and then the silence.

  Then Thorne handed the weapon to Cat and gestured toward the next prisoner. This captive was still very alert, and he looked up at Cat and formed the word no with his mouth. Cat looked at the head of the flail weapon, saw the blood glistening. Then he looked at his own hands and saw the smeared blood from the handle. He heard his father’s thick, scraping voice: “Get on with it! Hit him! DO IT!!”

  Cat felt himself lift his arm. He could feel the weight of the weapon’s head dangling behind his shoulder. And then he swung the bleeding stick. He swung it with all his might and struck his target with deadly accuracy. The weapon’s head stuck hard into the oaken beam that ran along the ceiling. Cat turned to his father and said, “I am not you!”

  Bartholomew Thorne’s face contorted. He said, “You are not worthy of my name.” Then he drew back his fist and sent a crushing blow into Cat’s jaw.