Isle of Swords (35 page)

She stared and tried to remember. But the only time she'd seen it was fleeting. Padre Dominguez had been showing it to Stede and her father, but he'd quickly covered his shoulders with the remnants of his robe when Anne entered the captain's quarters. There had been some sort of triangles or sharp stones, she thought, and something about a serpent, but she couldn't remember.

“You don't know, do you?” It was not a question. “I can read it on your face and in your eyes. You have seen the map, but you have not studied it. Pity.” He rolled up the parchment and slid it inside his coat. He turned and strode back toward the stairs, but stopped before disappearing into the shadows. “Your father killed my apprentice and tried to steal from me,” he said. “He has made his life forfeit.”

“No!” Anne flew to the bars. “No, please don't hurt him!”

“A noble request,” said Thorne without turning. He waited a few moments as if weighing the consequences of his next thought.

“When the monk is well, he will be placed in the cell next to yours.

If you can discover from him the rest of the journey, the way to the Isle of Swords, I promise I will spare your father's life. In fact, I will leave you safely in Edinburgh with a portion of Constantine's Treasure. Enough that your father will never have to go to sea as a pirate again. Isn't that what he's always wanted?”

Thorne left the deck. The sound of his heavy boots on the stairs was gone. All that remained were the creaks of the ship and the hypnotic feel of the ocean rolling. Anne knew she could not trust Bartholomew Thorne. But in her putrid cell, she could think of few options.

36
VESA'S ARK

H
ave they changed course?” Blake asked.

“No, sir,” replied Mr. Jordan.

“Done anything evasive?”

“No, sir. I've been watching.” The sloop was close enough now that they could observe its movements without a spyglass.

Sir Nigel was at the commodore's side. “Perhaps we can get a barrel of salted beef for our troubles.”

“We'll see,” Blake replied. “Or maybe this sloop is captained by some lesser pirate . . . one we can catch.”

“In the sheep pen?!” Midge exclaimed. “Are you mad? That's quite possibly the worst-smellin' place on the whole ship!”

“Except for yer mouth, mon,” said Stede. He slapped Midge on the back so hard he nearly fell over.

“Look,” said Vesa. “If they board us—which they will—they'll search the barrels, the crates, any normal place where items they might be interested in could be kept. You just stay low in the pens, and we'll cover you with hay.”

“Stay low?” said Midge. “But that means we'll be in the—”

“That's enough!” barked Ross. “So be it. We have no more time to waste. In a few minutes Blake will be able to see us on deck. We need to get below now. Vesa, if you've an empty crate, have the men put their cutlasses and daggers in it. It will go well if you are a merchant selling weapons abroad, but not if your crew is armed to the teeth.”

“Never in this life has Jacques Saint Pierre been forced into such a demeaning position,” said the Frenchman, now buried in straw with a fresh pile of sheep scat three inches from his nose.

“Aw, Jacques,” said Red Eye. “It could be worse.”

“How?”

“Caiman's little croc friend could be in here with us.”

“He's not, is he?” Midge lifted his head up through the straw.

“Get your head down!” Ross hissed. “And Jules, can't you get any lower? You look like a mountain of straw.”

“I'll try,” came Jules's deep voice from a massive pile of straw in the back of the pen. Two of the five remaining sheep stood in front of him, but still, Ross thought it looked strange.

“Quiet!” Ross whispered. “I hear something.”

“Sloop captain,” called a ship's mate from the prow of the
Oxford
, “state your business!”

“I am Vesa Turinen from the Caicos. I carry a variety of goods for trade in Portugal.”

“Portugal? A bit late in the year for such a journey.”

“Yes, well, it is my last trip for the season.”

“We are looking for pirates who were rumored to be traveling in these sea lanes.”

“Pirates?” Vesa feigned shock. “Good heavens.”

A little farther back on deck and out of Vesa's field of vision, Commodore Blake and Sir Nigel listened intently. “What do you think?” asked Blake.

“Sounds dreadfully old,” replied Sir Nigel. “Not likely to be a pirate.”

“Yes, the scoundrels do tend to be short-lived, don't they?

Despite that, we will board and search the decks.”

“Aye, sir.” Sir Nigel nodded to the ship's mate.

“Vesa Turinen,” he called, “prepare to be boarded.”

Declan Ross lay very still under the straw. He'd heard the ship's mate and knew that any moment Commodore Blake and his men would board the sloop. He also knew that if he was to be captured, Anne would most likely die, and Bartholomew Thorne would gain hold of the greatest treasure since the discovery of the New World.

Caiman came down through a forward hatch and shuffled through the crates and barrels until he came to a small crate that was covered with a piece of tarp. “Ah, mi gatita,” he said. He pulled a piece of salted pork out of his pocket and reached under the tarp.

“There you go,” he said. “You must be so lonely locked up in this crate. Sorry, but Vesa made me.” Caiman turned and looked into the sheep pen. “Are we comfortable?” Caiman laughed. He turned and walked away, headed back to the hatch.

Suddenly, every one of Ross's muscles tensed. An idea took hold of him so powerfully that he could not will it away from his mind.

It was brazen . . . and, he thought, probably stupid. He leaped up, sending straw in all directions amd startling the sheep. Caiman was so surprised by Ross's appearance, he neglected to secure the crate.

Ross leaped out of the pen, took Caiman by the arm, and explained what he had in mind. Caiman nodded and said, “I can do it, but you better hurry.” They heard a thud from above and then wood scraping against wood.

A gangplank
, Ross thought. He looked around anxiously. “My kingdom for pen and paper,” he muttered. He charged up the narrow aisle between crates and ducked through dozens of hammocks slung up in the rafters. Then, in Vesa's quarters, he found what he was looking for. Ross jammed the quill pen into the half-full ink bottle and scribbled furiously on a small piece of paper.

“Captain, they are on board!” Caiman called from the hold. Ross dipped one more time, knocked over the bottle of ink, and growled.

The ink pooled around a little Bible and rolled down the desk. Ross finished the message, folded the paper, and glanced to the now ink-stained Bible. “Please,” Ross said aloud—but to whom he was not at that moment sure. “He must find this at the right time and while he is in the right place.”

“Captain!”

Ross raced out of Vesa's quarters and jammed the folded message into Caiman's hand. They heard voices overhead. Caiman immediately climbed the ladder to the top deck. Ross sprinted across the hold. He banged into a stack of crates. One teetered and fell with a crash just as Ross dove into the sheep pen. He landed in the straw and muck and apparently also on Cat's hand. “Oww, get off,” Cat said. A sheep bleated at Ross, but there was nothing he could do.

Two British sailors stepped off the ladder into the hold.

“Place is packed tight, now isn't it?” one of them asked. “Ought to be able to find somethin' of worth, eh, Johann?”

“Ahg, what is that terrible odor?” Johann scowled. “It smells like me mum's chicken coop back in Bristol.”

“Don't know, mate, but it's not much worse than the bilge water in the
Oxford
. I'll look down this end. You take the other.”

“Thanks, Patrick, you're a bit of all right.”

Johann lifted a lantern off one of the posts and made his way quickly toward Vesa's quarters. But Patrick took his time examining crates, casks, and barrels. Soon, he discovered the sheep pen.