Isle of Swords (13 page)

Wounds in various places throbbed dully, reminding him that he wasn't quite well.

Cat quickly put his leather pouch behind a large conch shell in Stede's cabinet, the only hiding place he could find. He ambled over, crouched, and put his ear to the door. Another knock, this one a little louder, jolted Cat backward a step. A whispered voice, “Cat?”

He opened the door a crack and peeked out. “Anne?” He stood up and opened the door wide.

“Hurry up,” Anne barked under her breath. She barged past him and shut the door and locked it.

“Anne, what are you doing?” he asked, feeling awkward and somewhat suspicious. “What's with all the sneaking around?”

“You want to go ashore, don't you?” she said. He looked at her quizzically. “You said you wanted to go ashore, that you might remember something, right?”

“Y-y-yes,” Cat stammered. “But Captain Ross forbade me. To go would be mutiny.”

“For me, yes,” she replied coolly. “But not for you. My father has no right to keep you on this ship.”

“Your father—”

“Is not someone I like very much right now,” Anne interrupted.

“He doesn't know you. For all he knows, Dominica could be your home. He's keeping you captive against your will.” Anne didn't mention that he'd done the same to her ever since her mother died.

But Anne's face was red, and her smoldering eyes carried the unspoken message: Do you want to go or not?

Cat hesitated. Seeing the Carib stone face had brought back something, really the first memory of anything. And he longed to investigate Dominica. Still, Captain Ross and the crew had welcomed him aboard, healed him, fed him, gave him quarter—it seemed like betrayal.
But . . . what if this is my only chance?

“Come with me, Cat,” Anne said, seeing his reluctance. “Look, we'll just go for a bit, have a look around, and be back before nightfall. With all the gear and supplies they're looking for, my father won't get back to the
Wallace
until late—maybe tomorrow morning. No one will ever know.”

Cat was desperately intrigued by the possibility, but something still troubled him. Anne seemed different. Gone was the tenderness he'd seen in her before. Now, she seemed spiteful or . . . indifferent.

“Yes. I want to go,” he said at last. “But how will we get off the ship without anyone noticing?”

“Can you swim?”

Cat wondered. “I think so.” He truly had no idea, but earlier he didn't think he knew what to do with a sword either.

“Good. We'll drop into the river from the balcony window in my father's quarters.” She opened the door and motioned for him to follow.

“Anne?” He put a hand on her shoulder. She turned. “For what you're doing, thank y—”

“Don't thank me,” she said, turning away from his touch. “I'm not doing this for you.”

14
MAGNIFIQUE JACQUES ST. PIERRE

S
aint Pierre's can't be much farther,” Ross said, hacking through the overgrown rain forest path's foliage with his machete.

“How can you be sure this man will have all that our journey will require?” asked Padre Dominguez.

“If there's anyone in the Spanish Main who will have even the most obscure items or equipment, it's Jacques Saint Pierre,” Ross said. “I brought you along because I know the goods we'll need for sea travel, but you've been to the Isle of Swords. You know things we'll need that I'd never think of . . . things like monkey pee.” This earned chuckles and guffaws from Jules, Red Eye, and the twelve other crew members who followed behind the monk.

“This Saint Pierre, can he be trusted?” asked the monk.

“He's one of the few Frenchmen I know who can be,” Ross replied with a grin over his shoulder. “I just hope he accepts our offering.”

“What?” Padre Dominguez blurted out.

“You'll see,” said Ross. The crew chuckled some more.

At last, the landing party broke out from under the rain forest canopy. They entered Misson, a surprisingly large town that meandered on both sides of a serpentine road at the base of Mount Macaque. Shops and cottages lined the road, and a huge church made of gray stone sat above the foothills. The sun glistened off its wide stained-glass window, and Padre Dominguez marveled at the sight. Ross led them along a back alley on the side of town that backed up to the mountain. The British navy rarely ventured into Misson, but the French navy certainly did. Ross didn't want to meet up with either.

They heard the sound of rushing water before they turned the corner to St. Pierre's mill. White water cascaded down the side of the mountain, traveled down a long wooden chute, and poured into a massive churning wheel. Ross led them around the back of the building. They traversed under the water chute and entered the base of the mill building via a marvelous stone archway. “Jacques built this whole place himself,” Ross said.

Everyone, even those of the crew who had come to the mill with Ross before, gasped as they entered. The place was positively amazing. It was stuffed with every manner of merchandise. Hand-carved furniture, glittering metalwork, barrels full of swords, sacks of grain, and casks of every size and shape littered every square foot of the building. Other items—lanterns, coils of rope, bundled-up sails— hung from the low rafters. There was very little room to walk.

“'Scuse me, Captain,” said Red Eye. “You mind if I stay behind a bit and look at these here pretty swords?”

Ross stopped. “What do you need another sword for?”

“You can never have enough blades,” Red Eye replied. He held up a cutlass with a jagged blade. “Besides, there's more than the standard cutlass here. Knives, daggers, rapiers . . .” His voice trailed off as he became lost in sword lust.

Ross shrugged. “After we see to our supplies, you can enjoy yourself,” he said. “But you'll be carrying what you buy, and that only if we have enough hands to bring the rest of the things we
NEED
back to the
Wallace
.”

Reluctantly, Red Eye left the barrel of weapons. Ross led the rest up a narrow corridor lined with barrels stacked one on top of another. The other end was lit with soft orange light. This was the part Ross hated, for he knew that these barrels were filled with black powder. And Jacques kept a mighty forge just around the corner.

Ross's party exited the corridor and found Jacques St. Pierre hammering away at some white-hot piece of metal on an enormous anvil in front of the forge. He was a short man with wildly curly dark hair, but his wide-brimmed hat overshadowed his face. In spite of the heat generated by the forge, St. Pierre wore a heavy frock coat over a frilly white shirt. Aside from his sleeves, which were rolled up, he looked every bit the courtly gentleman and not in the least like a smith or shopkeeper.

He slammed the hammer down, sending a fount of orange sparks flying. At last, he lifted his head and noticed his visitors. “Oho, mon capitaine!” he announced. Using tongs, he tossed the glowing piece of metal into a barrel of water. “At last you have returned!”

He strode over to Ross and clasped his hand with a grip like iron.

“Hello, Jacques! Looks like you've been busy. Waterwheel is still working, I see.”

“Like clockwork, mon ami, like clockwork.”

Ross glanced back up the barrel corridor. “You, uh, sure you want to keep those barrels of black powder so close to your forge?”

Padre Dominguez looked back at the barrels.
Black powder?

St. Pierre grinned and twisted his thin moustache. “You pirates worry too much about explosives!”

“Easy to do,” said Ross. “When you've seen what one of those going off can do to a ship.”

“Nonsense!” St. Pierre replied with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

“I do not drop hot coals into the barrels. And my barrels do not leak. It is safe. Absolument!”

“But why would you take the risk?” Padre Dominguez muttered, still staring at the barrels.

St. Pierre peered around Ross and looked the monk up and down. “Père, you should have more faith,” he said. “I have no wish to die, but there are many who hunt for me and would see me hung.

There will be no criminal's death for Jacques Saint Pierre. Should an enemy come in numbers too great for me to fight by hand, should they be so bold as to surround my mill, then . . . and only then, I will shove a white-hot poker into the barrels. I may die, but I will take them with me.”

St. Pierre cackled aloud and smacked his knee. Then his face became serious and he turned to Ross. “Declan Ross, you did not come to trifle with me about my personal safety. You have need of my mercantile?”

“We are sailing the North Atlantic,” Ross replied. “We'll need cannon shot, black powder—”

“Plenty and to spare,” said St. Pierre.

“And rope, lots of rope.”

“I have miles of it!”

“We'll need foodstuffs. Plenty of grain, salted beef, fresh fruit.”

“You know that I have these supplies, Capitaine!” St. Pierre said.

“We'll also be needing some, uh . . .” Ross glanced at Padre Dominguez, “other things.”

“I am sure I can meet all of your needs!” St. Pierre clapped his hands. “I even have a few special items I have collected and set aside just for you. Now, did you bring me what I asked for?”

Ross looked hesitantly back at Jules. The burly sailor brought forth a large, oddly shaped bundle. St. Pierre raised an eyebrow and asked, “Well, did you get it?”

Ross nodded to Jules. Jules unwrapped the bundle, revealing a large ship's wheel.

“What is this?” St. Pierre exclaimed. “I asked you for ten pounds of English bacon, and you bring me a wheel I could make in my own woodshop in a day?!” The Frenchman grabbed a hot poker and held it up menacingly.

Ross held up both hands. “Jacques, wait! Let me explain.”

“No, Capitaine Ross, I have already waited. Two years I have waited for that savory meat. And when I saw you, my mouth started to water. But no! You have not brought me the bacon!”

“But this isn't just any ship's wheel.”

“I don't care. I cannot eat it for breakfast.”

“This is Chevillard's wheel.”

“I don't care if it is the King of Engl—what?” St. Pierre's mouth shut.

Ross knew immediately he had made a worthy offering. “We salvaged this before Chevillard's corvette went to the bottom.”

St. Pierre's look of shock vanished, and his smile broadened so wide that the fire from the forge reflected off his large white teeth.

“This is Chevillard's wheel?” he said. “You sank the Butcher's ship?”

Ross nodded.

“And Chevillard?”

“Dead.”

St. Pierre threw his hot poker into the barrel of water. He leaped a foot off the ground. “Oh ho, Declan Ross! This is joyous news indeed!”

“So you don't care about the bacon?”

“Oh no. I still want the bacon,” he said with a wink. “But this is magnifique! At last, that wretched man is dead. I will make a short table out of his wheel and put my feet upon it to watch the sun set behind the mountain! Oh, what a gift! Declan Ross, for this, I will open up my special room! Extraordinary things for your ship . . . and weapons. Oh, I have so many things to show you!”