Isle of Swords (37 page)
“We had outstanding wind behind us,” said Declan Ross. “But, as I said before, my crew may have had something to do with your speed.”
Each with overstuffed satchels of provisions, Ross's crew stepped from the ship to the pier and waited for their captain. Ross lingered and shook Vesa's hand. “You have been a gracious host,” he said. “Many lives may be saved because of this trip.”
“Taking you to Portugal will save lives?” Vesa snorted. “Probably your own. I am glad to have been of service.”
Ross saw Caiman over Vesa's shoulder. “Your man, Caiman, there,” Ross said, wishing he had asked St. Pierre to attempt this deal.
Vesa looked back and nodded. Suspicion gleamed in his eye. “Yesss?”
“He has expressed to me an interest in pirating,” said Ross. “And I could use a man like him. So I thoughtâ”
“Can you get me another green diamond?” Vesa asked, his voice thick and lusty.
“Possibly, but I cannot guarantee.”
“Caiman!” Vesa hollered. “Fetch your bag and get on with your new employer!”
Just a few days from New Providence, the HMS
Oxford
carved through the Atlantic with some decent speed. The winds had been less than favorable, making the journey much longer than Commodore Blake had hoped. The delay had given him too much time to think about his mistakes. He stood now in front of a long looking glass in his quarters belowdecks. The lanterns cast a warm glow on the golden lapels of his blue commodore's frock coatâa coat he felt sure he'd lose when he arrived at the British fort on New Providence and had to explain to Lord Admiral Konrath that he had failed to capture Bartholomew Thorne or Declan Ross. “Or any other pirate, for that matter,” Blake grumbled aloud. He removed his coat and tossed it with disgust over a nearby armchair.
He went to undo a button on his waistcoat when he noticed a small square of paper on the floor beneath his coat. Being an orderly man, he knew very well the contents of his pockets. And this paper, he thought as he picked it up, certainly did not belong to him. Looking over his shoulder as if someone might be playing some prank upon him, and convinced that no one could be watching, he unfolded the paper and began to read.
Commodore Blake's eyes widened as he read. In disbelief, he looked up at last.
Can this be real?
he wondered.
Can I trust him?
Blake left his commodore's coat behind and ran to the main deck. “Mister Jordan!” he cried. “Call all hands; we are turning this ship around!”
As Ross, Cat, and Jacques St. Pierre hiked rapidly along the Portuguese coast, Ross noticed the rest of the crew had fallen behind. While Ross waited for them, he looked at the city. Aside from his beloved Edinburgh, Sines was Ross's favorite city in the world. Gabled roofs, tall steeples, and lots of cobbled stoneâit all seemed so welcoming. And Ross had always wanted to explore the verdant foothills nestled in the distance behind the city. At last the others caught up, most of them huffing or gasping for air. “Ramiro's marina isn't far,” Ross said to encourage them. “The path will level out somewhat.”
The path wound around at the base of a large stony hill. Ross stopped short just after turning the corner. “I see Ramiro has not been idle these many years.” Cat and St. Pierre joined him and saw a busy marina. There were three tall ships moored there, and onshore there was the skeleton of a fourth surrounded by men whose dark skin glistened.
As Ross and his crew entered the shipyard, men stopped working. Some leaned out between the ribs of the ship. Others reached instinctively toward a weapon. Suddenly, a man ran out from behind the construction. He was barefoot and wore olive green pants that stretched only to his knees. The large white shirt he wore billowed as he ran. As he grew near, he did not reduce speed. He slammed into the captain and embraced him in a crushing hug. “Declan Ross! So good to see you!”
Turning three shades of redâboth from embarrassment and from being squeezed within an inch of deathâRoss replied, “It's good to see you too, Ramiro.” Ross coughed, and Ramiro finally released him. Stede, Red Eye, Jules, and the others raced in behind them. Thinking something was amiss, Red Eye had his sword drawn.
“Put away the blade,” Ross said. “And allow me to introduce you to Ramiro de Ferro Goncalo.” Ramiro shook hands with everyone nearby, and each one of them flexed the hand that had been shaken. Ramiro's grip was so strong that even Jules winced after their handshake.
“Sorry,” Ramiro said. “All these years working with my hands, you see.” They looked with wonder at Ramiro. He was two hands shorter than Ross and looked much older. He had gray hair tied back in a curly tail. His forehead was furrowed by deep wrinkles, and crow's feet sprouted from the corners of his eyes. His moustache was gray and curled wildly. Only his eyebrows were still dark. These arched devilishly above his restless brown eyes. Ramiro lowered his spectacles and looked over all his new guests. “So, Declan, what brings you all the way to Portugal?”
Ross noticed all the workers still staring. “Shall we walk and talk?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Come, bring your lads. I will show you my ships.” He turned back to his own men. “Get back to work, ya sluggards!” Once again, hammers and chisels flew.
No sooner had they begun walking along the marina than Ross said, “Ramiro, my friend, I am in great need.”
“Then I am glad you came to me,” Ramiro said amiably.
“I need a ship.”
If Ramiro was shocked he did not show it. He looked thoughtfully at Ross. “What about the
Wallace
?”
“Bartholomew Thorne burned it and half my crew, sent it to the bottom of Smuggler's Bay in the Caicos.”
“That scoundrel,” muttered Ramiro.
“And . . . he took Anne.”
Ramiro's face became anguished. “Not little Anne! Why?”
“Not so little anymore. Sixteen now. And as to why, I can only guess he wants to draw me out, use Anne as the bait. I need a ship to go and get her.”
Ramiro did not respond. He simply began walking. Ross and his men followed. They approached an impressive-looking two-masted brigantine. “I am not sure what I can do for you,” said Ramiro, shaking his head sadly. “I cannot give you this brig. It is promised to a very powerful prince named Alphonzo who lives in Lisbon. He has already paid for it, and, as you know, I never go back on a deal.”
Ramiro picked up the pace, and they closed in on the next ship.
It had three narrow masts, and its body was longer, more sleek than the brig. Ramiro explained, “I cannot give you this frigate either.
The East India Trading Company purchased it outright. They plan to make it an escort for their runs through the Spanish Main. And again, I will not break this deal.”
Ross groaned. “Are you going to help me orâ”
Ramiro raised a hand. “Follow me,” he said. Ross and his still-murmuring crew did as they were told. Some looked back over their shoulders at the frigate. They stopped immediately when they came into the presence of the last ship docked at the marina. They had seen it from the hilltop and recognized its size, but so close now, it was breathtaking.
“Now, this,” the shipbuilder said, “this is my masterpiece. I have combined features of the British ship of the line and the French corvette. I call it a man-of-war!”
“Great biscuits and gravy!” Nubby exclaimed. Cat, Jules, and the others began to file past Ramiro as he told of his ship.
“She is the ultimate blend of speed, gunnery, and maneuverability. Two hundred twenty feet long, and just a twenty-foot draft.”
“Twenty feet!” Ross exclaimed. “How did youâ?”
“No,” Ramiro said. “It is my secret. Sixty guns, twenty-four eighteen-pounders, twenty-six twelve-pounders on the middle deck, and ten more six-pounders on top. She is fast, turns like a sloop, and, with those guns, she'll punch you straight in the mouth!”
Ross was speechless.
Ramiro was pleased by the crew's reaction to his finest ship. “I haven't sold her yet. Don't know if I ever will. I might be persuaded to let you borrow her, butâ”
“But?”
“Stay. I'll be right back!” Ramiro scampered off down the marina. He flew up the gangplank and disappeared onto the man-of-war. He returned in like manner moments later, carrying something in his crossed arms. When he drew near, Ross saw that Ramiro had two rapier swords and a bundle of pads.
“Declan Ross,” Ramiro said, “if you want the services of my ship, you must duel me for it.”
N
o, Ramiro,” Ross implored.
Ramiro threw him the pads. Ross reluctantly slung the pad harness over his head. Ramiro handed him one of the rapiers, and Ross slid his hand inside the basket hilt. It had been a long time since he'd fenced. The two combatants slashed their blades and walked several paces away from the edge of the marina. Ross's crew looked on, wondering how all their hopes could come down to a single sword fight. Red Eye had half a mind to pull out a pistol and shoot the silly old shipbuilder. But he knew Ross would not approve.
The duel began with tentative moves. A slash from Ramiro, a poke from Ross. Suddenly, Ross lunged forward, and his rapier's point came within an inch of the middle of Ramiro's pads. But Ramiro denied the easy victory. He sidestepped like a matador and watched as Ross's momentum took him well past. Ramiro's rapier stabbed toward Ross's back, but Ross parried with a backhanded stroke. Back and forth it went, until Ross seemed to stumble. He backpedaled off balance and tried to ward off Ramiro's mad rush. But his block was weak. Ramiro knocked it down and jabbed his rapier into the center of Ross's pads. Ross fell backward and sprawled to the ground.