17
COMMODORE BLAKE STANDS ACCUSED
The driver opened the carriage doors to ripples of laughter. He looked at his three passengers curiously. Then he bowed and stepped aside so the three of them could depart.
Taking in the enormity and grandeur of St. James Palace, Hopper gasped. “Would you look at this place!” he exclaimed.
“Surely you’ve seen the palace before,” said Dolphin.
“Yes, my lady, but never this close.” Hopper’s bright eyes seemed to triple in size as they danced over the intricate stonework and the sea of red brick of the gatehouse and its twin polygonal turrets. “It’s huge.”
“Actually, Saint James Palace is considered quite small,” said Commodore Blake, earning a frown from the carriage driver, “. . . for the seat of a world power, that is. Did you know that it was constructed on the ruins of a leper hospital?”
“Brand,” Dolphin said, playfully smacking his forearm.
“What’s a leper?” Hopper asked.
“A leper—” Commodore Blake was about to explain in more or less colorful detail, but Lady Dolphin intervened.
“. . . is a person sick with a terrible illness. Now, let’s not keep His Majesty waiting.”
Upon entering the palace, they were guided to the parliamentary court by a quartet of guards, none of whom said even a single word. Court was already very much in session when they entered. Lady Dolphin led Hopper over to the regent’s box, a section of seats surrounded by a half wall. It was unusually full, Dolphin thought. As she passed in front of the others already seated, she thought she glimpsed a few very suspicious looks toward her. But it was nothing compared to the withering stares cast at her husband as he was led to a seat among many other military commanders and quite a few white-wigged politicians.
Commodore Blake felt his ire rise like bile in the back of his throat. What on earth had he done to deserve such a reception? He was quite sure he had no idea. Even the king had glanced at Blake and made a face as if he had just eaten something sour. But for now, at least, Blake would have to wait to discover the reason, for King George was very much occupied at the moment. Several Scottish merchants were complaining rapidly about taxes levied against their imports. Vogler, the king’s beak-faced translator, was having a terrible time keeping up with the Scots.
This back-and-forth went on for a terribly long time. Several politicians spoke on the necessity of the taxes—much to the Scottish merchants’ dismay. On and on the discussion went—made infinitely longer because of the delay time needed for translation.
This sort of thing was common, but nonetheless, Blake grew tired of waiting. He looked to Dolphin, who had opened her father’s journals once more. Then Blake sat up very straight. She daubed at her face with a handkerchief. Is she crying?
Blake started to stand, but then heard the court herald announce, “And now the matter of His Majesty’s Royal Navy against Commodore Brandon Blake.”
AGAINST?? Blake sat down hard. He glanced at Dolphin, who looked utterly miserable. “Commodore Blake”—came Vogler’s nasally voice—“please come before His Majesty and His Court.”
His stomach churning like a whirlpool and his mind reeling, Blake left his seat and walked across the court. He bowed briefly to the king before a guard led him to the boxed seat between the king’s platform and the parliamentary section, a seat normally reserved for one accused.
The king stood. His many silks swirled around him as he gestured grandly and spoke to the Parliament. Blake couldn’t understand a word of German, but even before Vogler translated, Blake knew he was in trouble.
“Commodore Blake,” said Vogler, now the mouth of the king, “you stand here accused of squandering the resources of England, of allowing known and dangerous pirates to escape justice, and of cavorting with pirates.”
“What is this?” Blake exclaimed.
“Commodore Blake,” Vogler insisted, “these are the charges. How do you respond?”
“How do I—” Blake forced back the wrath that boiled within, letting out an exasperated laugh. “I respond by saying these charges are . . . well, they’re absurd. Utter hogwash.”
The court erupted in many frenzied conversations. Some thought Blake had just insulted the king, for it was well-known that His Majesty’s large nose resembled that of a swine. When Vogler translated Blake’s words, the king glared down at Blake and issued several terse statements in German.
“You are advised,” said Vogler, “to remember your station. You will please refrain from such contemptible outbursts.”
“But who brings these charges against me?” Blake responded. “I am a decorated officer in the royal navy.”
“Another decorated officer brings these charges,” said Vogler. “The court calls his principal witness.”
The doors at the back of the great chamber opened and in walked a man in the full naval uniform of a commodore, identical to Blake’s own. The man was immediately familiar even though Blake could not at first see his face. He had a narrow, uneven walk as if he might lose his balance at any moment. But as he drew nearer, Blake felt the blood drain from his face. “Sir . . . Nigel?” Blake mouthed. “Nigel Wetherby?”
His beard was gone and his hair was much more neatly groomed than it had once been. But Blake was sure he was looking at his second-in-command. “Nigel, of all the unlooked-for blessings, I . . . I thought you were . . .”
“Dead?” Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Not hardly.”
“But Carinne, she’s devastated . . . she doesn’t know.”
Nigel waved away the mention of his wife as if it had been nothing. Blake’s mouth snapped shut. Why hasn’t Nigel sent word . . . at least to his wife? Still, at least Nigel is here now. He will put down these ridiculous charges.
Commodore Nigel Wetherby turned to those seated in the Parliament and proclaimed, “I served with Commodore Blake for nine years. And so it brings me very little pleasure to stand here before you today. But my allegiance is ever to England, and I cannot allow a friendship to intrude upon loyalty to my king.” He stood dramatically waiting for Vogler to finish translating. “I first became concerned for Commodore Blake when he ordered most of our Western Caribbean fleet to abandon their normal shipping lanes to pursue the pirate Bartholomew Thorne.”
There were rumblings in the courtroom at the mention of Thorne’s name. Nigel went on. “Thorne was a horrible menace,” he said, sounding like the voice of reason. “But I began to fear that Commodore Blake’s actions were becoming an obsession. There were, after all, other threats in the Spanish Main. And to leave so many unprotected to pursue a single pirate seemed to me . . . unwise.”
“We had a lead!” Blake stood. He couldn’t believe what he’d been hearing from his friend. “You know that. We’d been given information about Thorne’s stronghold.”
“Information from a less-than-credible source,” Wetherby said, showing his palms to the politicians. “It was another pirate who tipped you off, was it not?”
“Well . . . yes, but—”
“So at great risk to the Caribbean settlements, and”—here Wetherby spoke directly to the king—“at great expense to England, Commodore Blake drew most of our Caribbean fleet off on a wild chase across the Atlantic.”
“A chase that ended in the capture of one of England’s worst enemies!” Blake countered.
“Indeed . . . ,” said Wetherby. “But at what cost?” He was silent, watching the crowds who had gathered. Even the disgruntled Scotsmen remained to watch. Then Commodore Wetherby went on. “Yes, it is true that Commodore Blake and our fleet captured the notorious Bartholomew Thorne. But in that same moment, Commodore Blake did knowingly let another well-known pirate and his crew escape. Tell me, Commodore Blake, did you or did you not have the pirate Declan Ross, the Sea Wolf himself, and his crew at your mercy, and yet you chose to let him get away?”
“Of course, I did,” Blake thundered. “Without Ross, we’d have never caught Thorne. Besides, Declan
Ross and his crew have all been issued letters of marque from King George. They are all free men, serving England now.”
“Yes, now,” said Commodore Wetherby. “But not . . . then. Declan Ross and his crew were wanted for innumerable counts of piracy on the high seas. And without consulting your king and country, you let him go. Is that true?”
Blake’s face flamed to a deep, angry red. He literally shook with fury, but could not bring himself to speak.
“Your silence speaks volumes,” said Commodore Wetherby with a momentary pause to let his venom sink in. “And now, ladies and gentlemen of this court, and Your Majesty, hear now the most damning evidence of all. You see, this same pirate Declan Ross, at whose request Commodore Brandon Blake put our Caribbean settlements at risk and was—with criminal negligence—allowed to escape, did then conspire to embezzle untold riches from the coffers of England—all with the aid of Commodore Brandon Blake!”
The chamber buzzed with indignant chatter. King George startled them all by slamming his royal scepter onto his armrest so hard that a small red jewel broke free from its setting and shot into the powdered wig of one of the politicians. The king pointed his finger, and his voice thundered out in heavily accented English, “You steal from your country? Answer me!”
The unexpected ire muddled Blake’s senses. He found he could not think clearly. He looked to Dolphin, whose face was drawn in anguish, her eyes pleading with him, but . . . for what? Standing at her side, Hopper seemed so agitated that Blake thought the lad might jump over the half wall and come running. And all the while the weight of the king’s glare fell upon him. Think, think, think! Blake told himself.
He took a deep breath and decided to be as plain and as concrete as he could. He was not without weapons of his own. “These bombastic claims levied against me,” Blake said, “are nothing more than the speculations of an inferior officer and a conniving, greedy man.” Blake threw a glare at Wetherby that would have withered a forest. “Wetherby thinks this. Wetherby thinks that. He thinks! But that is all. Here are the facts concerning Declan Ross. He was a pirate, and a particularly effective one. But his name cannot be mentioned in the same paragraph with a murderous fiend like Bartholomew Thorne.
“Thorne slew thousands, many of them our countrymen. He kills in battle or in cold blood—it makes no difference. Thorne is a conscienceless monster for whom life has no value. Completely different are Ross and his crew. They wanted nothing more than to leave piracy and return to legitimate work. So Ross, at great risk to himself and his family, gave me the information I needed to apprehend Thorne. Ross even assisted our royal fleet by flushing Thorne into the trap we had set. And in the capture of Thorne, England gained riches beyond the scope of my imagination to describe. So, yes, I let Ross and his crew go. In my eyes, they have done England a great service.”
Blake scanned the room and saw many nodding heads and narrowed eyes. King George was still interested, but he had taken his seat. He was listening. Nigel Wetherby was about to say something, so Blake spoke up once more. “Ross did not return to piracy either. Nay, he and his crew came to me in New Providence with a plan to rid the seas of ALL criminals by using former pirates, thereby doubling our current fleet in the Caribbean. The noble monks of the Monasterio de Michael Acángel have put up great riches of their own to see this through. And this plan has been working. Dozens of pirates have turned from their ways. They want nothing more than to earn an honest living, raise families in homes of their own. Like all of us do. Why—”
Wetherby quickly seized the moment. “Perhaps, given the high and respected position of the people gathered in this room, you should speak only for yourself.” Laughter rippled through the stands.
Blake felt like he had fired a dozen broadsides at close range . . . only to see them sail well over the target. And there was Hopper, practically bouncing in front of his seat. And now, he was pointing at Wetherby . . . or the king. It was impossible to tell.
“Nay, Commodore Blake,” Wetherby continued, “these brigands, these derelicts are cut from an entirely different cloth than the nobility in this place. Do you even know what your redeemed pirates have been doing since they repented and became pirate hunters? Have you monitored their actions?”
Blake was silent longer than he meant to be. “The sea is quite vast,” he found himself saying. Even to his own ears, it sounded lame. “But we rendezvous in New Providence every three months.”
Commodore Wetherby let Blake’s words hang in the air for a long moment and then said, “Would it surprise you to know that several of your reformed pirate crews have already gone back to the sweet trade?” Blake said nothing.
Commodore Wetherby smiled. “In point of fact, the crews of the Buccaneer’s Oath, the Black Cutlass, and the Raleigh were found in Tortuga during a recent raid by the royal navy. They were too drunk to put up any fight at all. Some of them went so far as to thank King George for the ample donation to their drinking fund.”
The chamber had been a hive, quietly buzzing with opinions and suspicions, but Commodore Wetherby had thrown a stone into the midst of it. The result was a whirling, angry swarm.
“Outrageous!” someone yelled.
“Scoundrels!” barked another.
Half of the military commanders and most of the politicians were on their feet shouting their ire or sending exasperating glares. A dozen soldiers appeared and hastily quieted the writhing throng. One red-faced man had to be dragged from the chamber. Blake’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt as if the walls were pressing in against him, and he was helpless to push back.
Unlike the Parliament still shifting in their seats and breathing heavily, King George did not seem agitated in the least. He stood, adjusted his ever-swaying red robe, and motioned for Vogler to stand near. He spoke boldly and with more volume than he needed, especially since no one but Vogler understood him. In spite of the language barrier, it seemed to Blake that the speech the king now delivered had been practiced, rehearsed, and refined until the delivery was just so. Blake wondered what doom the king had pronounced, and he braced himself as Vogler began to speak.
“His Majesty declares a complete and immediate dissolution of the pirate-hunting fleet.” Blake felt the bile rising again in his throat. “Not even a single additional ounce of England’s gold will be paid to these doubtfully reformed pirates. England already has a pirate-hunting fleet. It is His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”
“You don’t understand!” Blake leaped to his feet and roared, “You can’t just cut them off again! They will live to curse England . . . you will create an enemy twice as large as it is, and ten times as fierce! You must—”
“YOU must take your seat!” commanded Vogler. “How dare you interrupt the king’s word.”
Vogler looked questioningly over his shoulder to the king. King George nodded and Vogler went on. “As for the matter of Commodore Blake . . . until such time as a thorough investigation of your actions can be completed, you will resign your commission as commodore in the royal navy and relinquish your command of the Oxford. Due to your distinguished service—in the past—you will be allowed your freedom. But do not leave England. This is the will of the king.”
Cheers and shouts filled the chamber, but this time the soldiers did not restrain them. Clamoring, red-faced men left their seats and filled the aisles. Guards came and forcibly took Commodore Blake away from the throne, pushing him through the crowd toward the chamber doors. “Brand!” a thin woman’s voice cut through the uproar.
“Dolphin!” Blake called, scanning over the heads of so many. There! He saw her red hair aflame in a bland sea. Bless her, she was knocking people aside to get to him. With Hopper right behind her, Dolphin drew near and stood in front of one of the guards.
“Stand aside, my lady,” the soldier commanded. “Mister Blake must leave the king’s chamber.”
“I am not your lady!” growled Dolphin. “COMMODORE Blake is my husband. Now shoot me if you must or allow us the dignity of depa
rting without an escort!” The guard’s eyes widened, and he stepped back a pace to let Dolphin pass.
Blake embraced her, but Dolphin quickly drew back. He looked at her, his expression questioning. “Thorne lives,” she said.
“What?” Blake could not believe he’d heard her correctly.
“Hopper saw him escape,” Dolphin explained. And Blake noted for the first time that Hopper was right behind his wife. “It was Nigel, my darling, Nigel released Thorne, and they escaped New Providence just before the wave hit.”
Blake’s thoughts swam. “How . . . how can this . . . ?”
“It’s true, sir,” yelled Hopper, his voice shrill. “I was at the fort that night, I was. Well, I know I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I wanted to see the pirate before he was hanged. First time I’d climbed the bell tower too. I was just on me way back down when I heard somefin’. I watched from above as this man came to the pirate Thorne’s cell. And lo, he opens the door and lets Thorne out. I thought then he was takin’ the pirate for a last meal or some such. But I never saw them come back.”
“How can you be sure it was Wetherby?” Blake asked.
“I saw him full in the face, I did!” Hopper frowned.
“And did he look just like the man over there?” Blake pointed to Commodore Nigel Wetherby, who was talking with Vogler off to the side of the throne.
Hopper nodded repeatedly. “’Cept he had a dark beard and his hair was longer . . . a little more scraggly.”
Blake felt a chill. It all made sense now. That’s how he did it. Blake recalled the meeting with Ross and his senior crew that night in New Providence. He remembered Commodore Wetherby excusing himself just after dinner—not more than an hour before the wave hit. And now, Nigel was back in England manipulating the king’s mind to think against the Wolf fleet.
Dolphin took her husband’s hand. He looked down at her, saw her pained expression, and said, “There’s more, isn’t there?”