Isle of Swords (52 page)

“And to eat?” asked St. Pierre.

“And to eat,” said the commodore, laughing. “Let us retire to the dining hall. Sir Nigel and his radiant wife, Carinne, are waiting.”

Once they were all seated at a long table laden with every imaginable delicacy, the conversation was jovial. “Look at the two of you,” said Sir Nigel, gesturing to Anne and Dolphin, who sat together. “You could be sisters.”

“Sisters? I could never be as pretty as Lady Dolphin,” Anne said.

“You are beautiful,” Dolphin replied. “Mister Thorne certainly thinks so.” Anne had glanced more than a few times in Cat's direction also. She thought he looked rather dashing—though she would rather be boiled in pudding than admit it.

Commodore Blake turned to Cat. “Should we call you Mister Thorne? Or do you prefer Cat?”

“My name is Griffin Thorne,” he said hesitantly. “But I am fond of Cat.”

Ross put a hand on Cat's shoulder.

After dinner was heartily consumed, Dolphin and Carinne excused themselves and went to the parlor for tea. Anne was invited, but politely refused. She and her father had agreed earlier that she would be allowed to be present for the discussion.

The mood of the conversation changed considerably. “Your other crewmen?” Blake asked.

“Some returned, but the others . . .” Ross's voice trailed off. “I fear they perished aboard Thorne's vessels or in the perilous crosscurrents.”

“My heartfelt condolences, Captain Ross,” said Blake, and he meant it. “My wife and I both have lost men at sea before. It . . . is never easy.”

Ross nodded. “How many were lost on the
Oxford
?”

“I was not actually referring to the
Oxford
,” Commodore Blake replied cautiously. He glanced at Cat. “With all due respect to Cat, I was serving as a mate on a frigate called the
Trafalgar
when Thorne attacked one stormy night. His cannon fire was precise, and one by one, he took out our masts. I was struck by debris and rendered unconscious. When I awoke, the ship was aflame and listing to port.

Bodies were strewn from one end of the deck to the other. Still, I traversed it looking for survivors. I went below and searched the cabins. In one of them, I found Dolphin . . . weeping over her father.

She was just a girl, and her father had hidden her in the wardrobe.”

“How . . .” Cat cleared his throat. “How did you get off the ship?”

“That, my friend, I can answer only by saying it was divine providence. Thorne had, of course, cut all the rowboats adrift. And yet I found one hanging by the side of the ship—hanging by the fraying edge of a single piece of rope that had wedged between splintered planks of the hull.”

“Still . . . the storm?” suggested Ross.

“Providence,” Blake said. “I do not remember much about that night in the rowboat upon that rolling sea. I only remember the sunrise and the white sails of the Spanish ship that rescued us.”

Cat had been thinking a lot about providence lately. The three nails that crucified Christ—without them, he, Ross, Anne, and St.

Pierre would have perished in the flames of the burning clifftop castle on the Isle of Swords. He knew the nails were in good hands with Father Brun and the Brethren. But he wondered if, one day, he might look on them again.

As the others talked, Sir Nigel quietly squirmed. Finally, he abruptly interrupted the conversation. “What of the treasure?” he asked.

Ross shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Commodore Blake was first to reply. “In all, we captured three of Thorne's ships, including the
Raven
. The treasure that was on those three is immense.”

Father Brun spoke quietly. “The Brethren would like one-third to go to the British and an equal portion to the Brothers of Saint Celestine for the rebuilding of their abbey and all that Thorne destroyed.”

“And the rest?” Sir Nigel asked. “What about the final third of the treasure?”

Father Brun hesitated. “Various charitable endeavors. And of course, Ross and his crew must be compensated for . . . services rendered.”

An awkward silence descended. Blake's eyes shifted from Fathers Brun and Gregory to Ross and back.

“And now for the matter at hand: Father Brun's proposition,”

Father Gregory said.

Father Brun nodded. “As we wrote in our initial correspondence, the increase in pirate attacks on settlements and ships at sea concerns us greatly.”

“As you wrote, Father,” said Blake. “But I'm not sure what more England can do, which is why I found your proposal intriguing. But how would it work?”

“You will need the right kind of help,” Father Brun said. “Based on the advice of Captain Ross and his crew, we could create a fleet of pirate hunters manned by pirates themselves.”

“I have connections in the sweet trade,” Ross said. “If His Majesty of England would offer a full pardon to any pirates who want to turn and hunt down those who wreak havoc on the seas, I believe some former privateers would join the cause. We'd clean up half your problem that way, and it would only be the hardened, most destructive lot left to catch. And who better to hunt pirates than the pirates themselves?”

“Commodore, this is nonsense,” said Sir Nigel. “Pirates . . . sailing for England? Whoever heard of such a thing? They are scoundrels—reprobates!”

“And so are we all,” said Father Brun. “But for the grace of God.

Many of those who now haunt the seas would still be honest sailors—if their governments had not cast them aside.”

“Our plan,” said Father Gregory, “will be an offer of redemption. For years, the monks of Saint Celestine have harbored pirates on our island. Always we hoped they would turn away from piracy, but rarely did they. If one of their own could lead them, then maybe . . .”

Ross waited for a moment and then said, “These pirate-hunter captains and their crews would be paid. And they'd need new ships, the best cannons, and other provisions.”

Blake's eyebrows rose high, and he shook his head. “Ross, it's a good idea—in principle—but supposing I could get my government to support this, do you have any idea what this would cost?”

“Already, the Brethren has had the good fortune to recover more of its treasure, with the assistance of Captain Ross and his crew,”

Father Brun said. “So we have the ability to pay them. There need be no money spent from the king's coffers.”

Blake raised an eyebrow.

“So, Commodore, will your government grant pardons and commit letters of marque to Ross, his crew, and other pirates who willingly turn?”

Commodore Blake smiled and nodded his head. “Considering it will cost England nothing and likely rid the seas of many of England's enemies . . . yes, I think so.”

“I have been empowered by the Brethren to sign any documents the king might request,” Father Brun said.

“I shall have the papers drawn up immediately,” Blake said.

Sir Nigel excused himself. “If you'll pardon me, gentlemen, I think I will retire for the evening. But I want the ladies to have their fun. Do tell my Carinne that I have gone and will send a carriage for her later.”

The conversation carried on for several minutes, and then the commodore led his guests out onto the balcony. “Quite an extraordinary view, wouldn't you say?”

“Magnifique!” exclaimed St. Pierre.

“Breathtaking,” said Ross. The commodore's residence was very high on a hill overlooking the port of New Providence and the British fort. A full moon shed glorious white light on the ocean, the furled sails of the tall ships, and the tops of the palms.

Commodore Blake noticed Cat looking down at the fort. “I suspect you know,” Blake said. “His sentence will be carried out at sunset tomorrow. Are you sure you want to see this?”

“I'm not sure,” Cat replied. He stared at the dark building, the sharp stonework . . . the gallows platform. His father, Bartholomew Thorne, was down there in one of the cells. Cat wasn't sure at all that he wanted to see. “If somehow, even if it's the last moment before . . . If he should show some remorse—I need to see that.”

A frantically ringing bell snapped them all out of their thoughtful trance.

“That is the warning bell from the fort.”

Cat pointed. “The sea—”

As they watched, the tide drew back from the fort's sea wall, exposing the seafloor, first leaving small boats leaning on the ground and then landlocking tall ships. As the bell continued to ring furiously, men on the decks of the leaning ships jumped overboard and tried to run toward shore, only to be bogged down in silt. Those onshore rushed en masse toward the highest point they could reach.

“Follow me,” Blake yelled as he sprinted through his estate.

Ross, Cat, Anne, and the other guests followed. They burst through the building's front door and stopped short. Dolphin and Carinne ran up behind them.

They watched as a wall of water surged in from the ocean. It swirled around the listing ships and covered the exposed seafloor.

Then it slammed into the fort's sea wall. But it did not stop. It flooded over the wall, knocking guards off their feet, causing them to slide in the rushing water along the cobbled stone. There seemed no end to the powerful and sudden wave. It began to break ships free of their moorings and smashed them together. On what had been the dry shore, palm trees snapped and buildings were flooded.

And still the water continued to rise.

They watched in horror as the black ocean water climbed over the fort's walls, filled its courtyard, and, at last, submerged its cells.

The devastation of the massive wave on the island of New Providence could not be measured. All structures not made of heavy stone or not high above sea level like Blake's estate were completely washed away. When the water finally receded enough for rescuers to get down to the fort, Commodore Blake, Declan Ross, and Cat were first among them. They ran through the fort's splintered gate, across the mud-strewn courtyard, and to the cells.

They saw a few empty cells as they ran. These were filled with muddy brown puddles and pieces of debris. But the cells that held prisoners were far worse. Not a single living soul in any cell. Many of Thorne's crew, who just a month earlier had run their hands through treasure enough to make them kings, were now left with strands of muddy seaweed draped across their pale fingers. Ross thought it ironic that one of the most powerful and feared pirates in the world, the scourge of the sea, would meet his end in this way . . . drowned like a common rat.

Blake, Ross, and Cat turned a corner, but knowing the way, Blake pulled ahead. He raced up a small flight of stairs to the upper level. As Ross and Cat tried to keep up, they could see the dark waterline high on the stone. It was far above the doors of the cells.

Ross and Cat took the stairs two at a time, trying to catch up.

They raced along the walk just in time to see Blake stop and step awkwardly back from an open cell door. Cat's heart began to pound. He and Ross approached slowly and looked inside. But the cell that had held Bartholomew Thorne was empty.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, Mary Lu, for helping me weather the storms of life. This book, and all that I write, is as much yours as mine. Your love and sacrifice made it happen. 1C13. To my faithful crew: Kayla, Tommy, Bryce, and Rachel . . . you are the greatest treasure a father could ever hope to have. I love you and always will. Brian, Jeff, and Leslie: My imagination would never have been what it is today without your presence in my life. Mom and Dad: Thank you for always sparking my creativity and love of reading— and for providing me with a rich and anchor-stable home. To the Dovel family: Thank you for your endless generosity and for continuing to support my writing. You guys SO rock!

Bill and Lisa Russell, Dave and Heather Peters, Doug and Chris Smith, Todd Wahlne, Danny Sutton, Warren Cramutola, Chris and Alaina Haerbig, Dan and Courtney Cwiek, Janet Berbes, Chris and Dawn Harvey, Don and Valerie Counts, Mat and Serrina Davis, and Jeff and Leslie Leggett— you are most excellent friends. Michelle Black: You continue to be a special encouragement in my writing.