Jacques St. Pierre directed Stede away from the trade commerce and around a horn of land to the promised shipyard of Slash Montant. There were already a dozen ships in various states of repair anchored at the many docks. This Slash is a busy man, Ross thought.
No sooner had Jack and Ross moored the ships at the only open quay than a man came charging up the pier. He stomped right up to the bow of the Bruce and stood with his hands on his hips. He wore green breeches that stopped at the knee, a long sword on one hip, and a variety of tools on the other. He tapped his foot on the dock and scratched at his dark goatee. When no one hailed him from the ship, he began to yell. “Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was high, commanding, and distinctively English. “And who gave you permission to take up space in my shipyard?”
“Slash, you simpleminded Englishman,” St. Pierre yelled back. “Do you mean to tell me you do not know a fortune when you see one?”
The man on the pier squinted in the sun. “Jacques?” His smallish eyes opened wide. “Jacques Saint Pierre . . . you doltish French buffoon, you’re still alive?”
Before Ross could stop him, Jacques drew his sword, grabbed a rope, and swung down to the pier. Merciful heavens, thought Ross. St. Pierre’s going to kill the man before he can fix our boat.
Slash drew his sword as St. Pierre approached. The two exchanged a flurry of blows, but clearly Slash was the better swordsman. His rapier moved in a blur, and he quickly gained an advantage on Jacques. Red Eye joined Ross at the rail and lowered a long-barreled musket. He used his good eye and sighted it on St. Pierre’s enemy.
“No,” said Ross, putting a light hand on the musket. “Let them fight . . . for now.”
Red Eye reluctantly lowered the rifle.
St. Pierre was sweating now. He did all he could to parry and block the advancing Slash, but the Englishman was too fast. He lunged, and St. Pierre’s sword suddenly flew into the air. Slash caught it. Red Eye took aim.
Then Slash threw down both swords and grasped St. Pierre in a Herculean bear hug. “Ah, Jacques,” he said. “So good to see you again!”
“Likewise, mon ami!” said St. Pierre. “You haven’t lost your touch with the rapier, I see.”
“Never,” he replied. Then his demeanor became serious. “Now, what were you saying about a fortune to be had?”
Ross and the senior crew of the Bruce traveled down the gangplank even as Cutlass Jack and his men did so from the Banshee. “Slash Montant,” Jacques said, “allow me to introduce Captain Declan Ross.”
As he shook hands with Ross, Slash said, “The Sea Wolf, eh? Your pirate reputation precedes you.”
“I’ve left piracy behind me,” said Ross. “But I’ve kept the name.”
“As have I,” said Cutlass Jack, holding out his own hand, which Slash shook in turn. “I am Cutlass Jack Bonnet.”
“Cutlass Jack and Declan Ross . . . no longer pirates?” Slash smiled. “If only we could persuade Edmund Bellamy to do so, Martinique would be a much happier island.”
“Then let Martinique rejoice!” said Jacques St. Pierre. “For Bellamy is dead.”
“Dead?” echoed Slash. “Really?”
“Quite.” St. Pierre laughed. “Thanks to these two ships and their crews. But during the battle that claimed Bellamy’s life, each of these ships sustained considerable damage.”
“Especially this one,” Slash said, pointing at the Bruce. “Unless I am sorely mistaken, you are missing a mast.”
“Yes,” said Ross. “Jacques told us you had the supplies to repair our ships.”
“Oh, I have what you need,” said Slash. “And I can fix your ships.”
“But we have urgent need of speed,” said Ross. “We need to sail for England.”
“They do not call me Slash for nothing,” he replied. “But can you afford me?”
Ross started to speak, but Jacques stepped in front. “Pardonnez, mon capitaine . . . may I address this?”
Ross smiled and nodded. Jacques was not only the chief gunner, but he was also the chief negotiator.
St. Pierre took Slash Montant by the shoulder and said, “Slash, my friend . . . I see by your bustling docks, you are very busy, no?”
“All the business I can handle,” Slash replied proudly.
“Oui, très bien,” Jacques paused. “But, ah, this business is all local, ah? They pay you in what, chickens? Sugar cane?”
Slash frowned. “Look, mate, what are you getting at?”
“Nothing.” Jacques held up his hand, pleading innocence. “I am sure you need these things, the common necessities of life. But, ah, my friends Ross and Cutlass Jack, they have spent years plundering the far reaches of the world. Do you not think they might have something to offer you . . . something quite a bit better than chickens?” St. Pierre watched Slash’s expression change. He was hooked, and Jacques knew it.
“What sort of somethings might you gentlemen have to barter?” Slash asked. “Gold? Jewels?”
“Yes to both,” said Ross. “How fast could you repair our ships if we were to part with some of these items?” Then, taking a page out of St. Pierre’s book, he added, “Some of these rare items.”
“Very fast indeed,” said Slash. “A blink, and I will be done. But let us not discuss the fee any longer. I see that you are good to cover whatever I charge. Let me survey the damages, and then we can begin work.”
After Slash assessed the damages to both ships, he assembled a crew of more than a hundred laborers—most pulled from work on other ships—and they went right to work on Jack’s Banshee and the Robert Bruce. For three days, Slash and his men worked seamlessly with the crews of the two ships. But on the fourth day, things became suddenly difficult.
On the newly repaired quarterdeck, Captain Ross sipped at a mug while talking to Stede about potential routes to England and courses of action once there. “But Stede,” Declan continued, “he has to hear us out. It’s his country that’s in danger.”
“I tell ya about that king, Declan,” said Stede. “Him b’ stubborn as a mule and half as smart.”
“Blake will listen,” Ross said. “If he’s even in Eng—”
The deck erupted in angry shouts, and men converged around the gap where the new mast would go. Ross and Stede leaped down to the deck and cut through the mass of people to see what had transpired. They found Ebenezer Hack and Slash Montant in the middle of it all.
“Ah, Captain Ross,” said Hack. “I’m glad you’ve come. Tell this ridiculous corner cutter that I’m the ship’s master carpenter, and in the big decisions I’m in charge.”
“Corner cutter?” Slash objected. “You knuckle-dragging oaf, how dare you! I’m only providing the speed that Captain Ross here requested.”
Ross raised both eyebrows and looked at Stede, but Stede had already begun retreating into the crowd. Thanks a lot! thought Ross. He turned to Hack and asked, “What is the real problem here?”
“It’s like this, Captain,” said Hack. “The new mast is sized and cut. I contend we careen the ship to put in the mast—the way it’s always been done. But this tea-swilling crumpet head has the fool notion of hoisting the mast up with ropes and letting it drop in!”
“Tea-swilling?” Slash raged. “Crumpet head? That’s it! I’ve had enough of this outrage from you, you no-necked gorilla.” He pulled off a glove and smacked Hack across the face. “I challenge you to a duel.”
“A duel?” Hack scoffed. “Gladly, but not with swords. You are a master, and I am no good with a blade. Let us battle with our bare fists, you bombastic blowhard!”
“Bombastic?” Slash thought for a moment. “Ooh, good word, but I must decline, for I am no match for someone of your immense girth. You would crush me in a brawl. Then we must settle this in the way of courtly gentlemen of old.”
“You mean pistols at twenty paces?”
“Nay, we must play chess!”
“Chess?” Hack looked puzzled a moment, and then a sly look rippled across his brow. “Very well
then, I accept.”
To everyone’s surprise and amusement, Ebenezer Hack went below deck for a few moments and then returned bearing a sack that contained a cloth chessboard and all the pieces. Hack and Slash then went at it on the chessboard: taunting each other with every move, exulting with every advantage, and miserably whining whenever a piece was taken by his opponent. But in the end, game one was a draw. The second game was a stalemate, so again, no one arose as victorious. By the third game, the entire crew of the Bruce, along with a great many from the Banshee, and more than fifty of Slash’s carpenters and workers had gathered in a circle around the chess match. Still others climbed the rigging to watch and cried out possible moves.
As fascinated by the match as he was, Ross was impatient. “We’ve no time for this!” he said.
The two chess players ignored the comment, but Jacques took Ross’s arm. “Ah, mon capitaine, it is Slash’s way . . . the only way to avoid bloodshed.” Ross rolled his eyes and crossed his arms to wait.
The match was incredibly close. Each move drew gasps from the crowds. Even Ross found himself suddenly spellbound. It was Hack’s move, and he had been taking a very long time. Slash was beside himself waiting for the move. “Come on, you cross-eyed brute,” he jeered. “Make your move.”
Then Hack slid his bishop diagonally across the length of the board, slamming one of Slash’s pawns and putting his king in check. Ross cringed, for giving up a powerful bishop for a lowly pawn was a terrible exchange. All Slash had to do was take Hack’s bishop with his king. The crowd muttered. Slash scrutinized the board and was amazed that his opponent had at last made a foolish move. Then Slash said, “Hack, old boy, in these three hotly contested campaigns, you have gained my respect, but with that last move, I believe you have lost any hope of winning this game.” Slash moved his king and took Hack’s bishop. The crowd groaned. Hack looked as if he’d been trampled by a herd of buffalo.
But his expression changed. The dejected frown curled into the most mischievous grin, and Hack cracked his knuckles. “Slash, my good man, you also have my respect—and friendship, should you want it—for never have I faced such an adversary. But now, it is with greatest admiration that I say to you: you really fell for it this time! Huzzah!”
Hack slid his rook vertically until it toppled over Slash’s queen. The crowd erupted with gasps of surprise and wonder. They all looked at the board, wondering how such a move could have been possible. It hadn’t been there a moment before, they were all sure. Slash turned as white as a sail, for he alone understood what Hack had done. Slash shook his head a couple of times and muttered, “Brilliant . . . that was simply brilliant.” He knocked over his own king, surrendering the game to Hack. He stood and offered Hack his hand. The two shook, and the crowd began to disperse.
Captain Declan Ross came up to them just afterward and said, “I watched the entire game, but I don’t understand . . . how did Hack get your queen?”
“A magnificent ploy,” Slash admitted. “Hack hid his rook behind his bishop, waiting for me to move my queen into position. Once I had, it was already too late. Hack moved the bishop, attacked, checking my king. By the rules of chess, I must get my king out of check, so I did the obvious thing and took his bishop. But when he’d moved that bishop, he opened up a lane of attack for his rook to surprise my queen. It was both a sacrifice and a forced play.”
Ross understood. Hack had hidden his best move behind a first move that seemed foolish to his opponent. The result had been assured victory for Hack. “Well done, Hack!” Captain Ross said. “Looks as though we’ll careen the Bruce, eh?”
It had turned out to be a good thing that they turned the Bruce on its side to put in the new mast, for it was then that they discovered some below-the-waterline damage that they had not seen before. Six boards had cracked near the keel, a wound that, had it worsened out at sea, could have led to the end of the Robert Bruce and its crew. Hack and Slash worked together to repair the hull. In fact, the two of them became the fastest of friends. In the days that followed, Slash taught Hack how to duel with a rapier sword, and Hack taught Slash how to fight barehanded, but this only during their spare time. The majority of the time was spent on the ships.
Between them, they organized the crew into several able groups of carpenters and laborers. And in less than two weeks, Declan Ross’s man-of-war and Cutlass Jack’s xebec were better than new.
The morning of their departure for England, Slash came aboard the Bruce and knocked on the door to the captain’s quarters.
“Enter!” Declan yelled. When he saw that it was Slash, he said, “I suppose you’ve come for your payment.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Slash scratched at his dark whiskers thoughtfully and then asked, “The work . . . I trust it is satisfactory?”
“Better than that, Slash. You are a gifted shipwright.” Ross paused to think a moment. Then he reached into a drawer, withdrew a drawstring pouch, hefted it a moment, and dropped it into Slash’s hand. “Will this be enough to cover your expenses?”
Slash opened the pouch and whistled. “It is quite . . . adequate,” he said. Then he closed the bag and hesitated to say something he had been considering.
“But?”
“But there is one thing more I would request.”
“I had a feeling there would be,” said Ross.
Slash smiled. “You see, I grow weary of my current vocation. Always I get to build the boats, but I rarely get to sail. Always I hear the stories, but I never get to be in them. I want to join your crew and live an adventure. I want to sail to England and help you take down Bartholomew Thorne.”
“You know of Thorne then?” Ross was surprised.
“He is only the talk of both crews! I must say I was surprised to hear that he is still alive.”
“Slash,” Ross cautioned, “we could certainly use someone of your skill—both with woodworking and with the rapier. But Thorne is a wicked and powerful man. If you come with us, you could forfeit your life.”
“I laugh at death,” Slash replied, puffing up his chest.
“The voyage itself is grueling, and the Atlantic can be tempestuous at this time of year.”
“Ha, storms!” Slash scoffed. “I have made these two ships so strong that we could ride on a tidal wave!”
“Still, food could get scarce,” Ross said. “You may end up having to eat rats . . . or worse.”
“I will eat iguanas, if I must.”
Ross laughed at that. “Nubby, my ship’s cook, might just be able to arrange that.”
“Please, Captain Ross,” said Slash. “I want to sail with you. I want to join my new friend Hack in keeping this ship in good working order. I want to do something about the pirates that hurt so many. You see, many years ago, Edmund Bellamy raided a sugar plantation . . . owned by my favorite uncle. Bellamy slew him and burned out his home. I want to fight by the side of the man who stopped Bellamy’s brutality forever. Will you have me?”
“What about your shipyard?” Ross asked, playing his last card.
“I will leave it in the hands of my apprentices,” said Slash. “It is not a problem.”
“Very well then,” said Captain Ross. “Once we are out to sea, we will have you sign the articles of the Robert Bruce. In one hour, we depart for England. I suggest you go and pack whatever you’ll need.”
“It’s already on board . . . , Captain,” said Slash with a mischievous smile. He spun on his heels and was gone.
As Ross and Stede stood alone on the quarterdeck that evening, Ross asked, “Do you think we’re too late?”
“What we b’ finding in England, I do not know, mon,” Stede replied. “But I b’ having a bad feeling we not b’ liking it.”
20
MUTINY ON THE OXFORD
Where are you going?” Blake asked.
“For a ride in the carriage,” answered Dolphin. “I will not be long.”
“Darling, are you quite sure you are all right?” he asked. “Th
is is so unlike you.”
“Yes,” Dolphin replied. “I am quite sure I am all right. In fact, I have a clarity of mind that I have been lacking for too long.”
Blake didn’t know what to make of that. “Will you not tell me what you are going to do?”
“Brand, my husband”—she said, taking his hands and fixing his eyes with her own—“have I ever betrayed your trust?”
“No,” he replied. “No, of course not.”
“Then trust me now.” She kissed him and walked to the door.
Even Hopper stared after her. But just before Dolphin closed the door, she said, “Rest while you may, my husband, and you too, young Hopper. For if my errand is fruitful, this could be a very long night.”
Aboard the British frigate called the Oxford, quartermaster Jordan dipped a quill pen into a dark bottle of ink once more and completed his letter. He put the document in an envelope, tilted a candle, spilling wax on the flap, and then sealed it with Commodore Blake’s official seal. Just then, there was a knock at his cabin door.
Jordan opened the door. “Mrs. Blake! What are you doing here?”
“I need your help,” she said. “That is, the commodore and I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn, and I fear that King George and the Parliament no longer have England’s best interests in mind.” Her lower lip trembled, and she looked over her shoulder before she continued. “But what I am going to ask you to do may put you and many of the Oxford’s crew in the stockade or worse.”
Mr. Jordan ushered her in and closed the door. “Tell me what you have in mind,” he said. “And hurry. Commodore Wetherby is due on board any moment.”
After she told him her plan, he smiled at her and said, “Ma’am, if you only knew how providential your visit is.” He held up the envelope. “In this envelope, I have my resignation from His Majesty’s Royal Navy. But . . . I think I’ll hold off on this for just a while.”