Sir Nigel put on a grim face, turned, and spoke solemnly. “I seek only to serve the best interests of England. My reward must only be to see my king and my country prosper.” He paused. “But, should Commodore Blake be unreasonable toward Your Majesty, should he contend with you and continue to show a lack of sound judgment, I would consider it an honor if you would see fit to grant me command of the Oxford.”
Vogler translated immediately. The king smiled broadly and nodded to Sir Nigel.
Sir Nigel nodded back. As he turned to leave, he thought, Ah, my pig-king, we understand each other at last.
7
THE JUDGMENTS OF COMMODORE BLAKE
Lady Dolphin Blake slowly lowered an old, leather-bound book and frowned at her husband. “I still don’t understand why the first mention of me in my father’s journals is when I was already two years of age.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t know, Dolphin” Commodore Brandon Blake replied. He frowned back at his wife over a steaming cup of tea. Sitting across from her on a blue and white striped couch in the parlor of their New Providence home, he added, “Maybe he didn’t take to journaling about family right off.”
“Brand, darling, don’t be absurd,” she replied, a glint in her green eyes. “He mentions mother quite frequently. Mother . . . and ships—but that’s all there is for years. And then, there I am, already two. I tell you, some of my father’s journals are missing.”
Blake, who had recently returned to New Providence after an eight-hundred-mile hunt ending in the capture of the Spanish pirate Inigo de Avila, had been hoping to relax with his wife. But ever since the surprise delivery of her father’s journals, Dolphin had been as anxious as Brand had ever seen her. “You could be right, of course,” he said. “But there are several large gaps between entries. More than a year in some cases. Perhaps he was just too busy to write.”
“Too busy to write about his only child?” Dolphin brushed a lock of dark red hair out of her eyes and looked at Brand. “I can’t imagine.” Brand sighed. He’d developed his own suspicions, but, for Dolphin’s protection, he was hesitant to reveal them—especially since there was no way to know for sure. “Don’t let it trouble you so, my dear,” he said, sipping his tea and avoiding her stare. “But rather think of this as a blessing. If old Mrs. Kravits hadn’t realized what those journals were, she might have left them to rot or thrown them out. Now you have a treasure in your hands. Let it—”
“I want to go back to England,” Dolphin said suddenly.
“What?”
“I want to visit Mrs. Kravits. I want to search my old home in London. My father may have other documents—maybe even more journals hidden away.”
“Darling,” Brand said. “You know my commission. I have a fleet to command and a disorganized band of pirate hunters to coordinate. I couldn’t possibly leave now.”
“Then let me go without you,” she pleaded. “There are ships coming and going nearly every day. Please, I need to do this.”
There came a sharp rap at the door. Brand was thankful for the interruption. He patted Dolphin’s hand and then left the parlor. Dolphin thought it was dreadfully quiet. She wondered what her husband would decide. Angry voices emanated from the main hall. A shout, and then a door slammed.
Brand returned. His cheeks were flushed, his brow was knotted, and his eyes looked small. In his right hand he held a large, rolled parchment. “It seems you shall have your wish,” he said rapidly, his words clipped. “His Majesty, King George, has commanded that I bring the Oxford back home . . . immediately.”
Nathaniel Hopper waited for nightfall to clamber down from his roost in the bell tower on the British fort at New Providence. His face and skin were grimy, his clothes soiled and dark. He was a shadow creeping along the roof of the British fort. For many months, none of the soldiers had noted Hopper’s movements in the alleys, along the walls, or on the docks. One of the prisoners had seen him once, caught him scurrying past the cells with a bunch of bananas. “Some kind of giant, deformed monkey, it was,” the prisoner had later explained to the guards. “It looks at me with eyes big as oranges and then climbs right up the wall!”
Hopper laughed at the memory. The guards had laughed too, but they didn’t put any stock into the prisoner’s claim. That is, until people began to notice things going missing. Hopper had mostly stolen food, usually in small quantities, just what he needed for the day. But the paring knife he couldn’t resist. The hat too. A yard of cloth. A small spyglass. A few books to help pass the time. It had been relatively easy, and Hopper’s nest in the tower became littered with all sorts of knickknacks.
The soldiers had become much more watchful since then. And that was okay. Hopper didn’t need those other things. But food and fresh water were another matter. First, they tried moving the food storage two or three times, but Hopper always sniffed it out. When that didn’t work, the Brits had begun posting guards around the food—day and night. Now Hopper had to scramble just for scraps. He’d thought about going into town. There would be much easier pickings there, but no, he couldn’t do that. He felt sure he’d die, if he did that. Of course he’d die, if he didn’t eat. It had been three days since his last meal—an apple he’d fished out of the harbor. Hopper knew, risk or not, it was time.
Hopper saw the masts of the huge British ship of the line before he even got to the edge of the roof. Staying low and sliding his knapsack noiselessly along the roof tiles, Hopper crawled until he could see the ship. The HMS Oxford was as proud a ship as Hopper had ever seen—and perfect for his needs. Shouldn’t be too hard to stay hidden on a ship that big, Hopper thought. His mouth watered as he considered the endless array of provisions he’d seen loaded aboard all afternoon and into the night. And, as far as Hopper was concerned, the most important thing about the Oxford was that the ship was bound for London that very night.
Hopper thought about London as he secured both ends of his knapsack, hoisted it on his shoulder, and began the long climb down to the docks. He hadn’t been back to England in three years. He had no idea if he’d know how to get back to the row house where he had been born and raised prior to coming to the islands. He thought if he could just find the old house, maybe that nice lady next door, Miss Hamilton, would take him in and take care of him. It was a lot of ifs, but that was all he had.
Hopper slid down a drainpipe and crouched behind a rain barrel. He scurried over to a carriage and ducked under the bellies of a pair of horses that smelled almost as bad as he did. They didn’t seem to mind their visitor. Hopper watched the guards, waiting for the right moment to sprint to the mooring lines. But he had to pause a moment to look at the ship. This close, the Oxford looked even more gigantic—like a small city floating in the harbor. Each of the masts were shrouded in rigging and crossed with huge spars and tightly furled sails. Lanterns glimmered like fireflies along the vast deck. And there were too many cannons to count.
Originally, Hopper had planned to clamber in through one of the cannon bays, but to do that he’d have to get wet. Hopper didn’t like getting wet. So he’d decided to take his chances with the mooring lines.
Other than some painful splattered jellyfish smeared on the rope, the mooring line Hopper had selected was a good one. It led up to the top rail and ducked right under a web of rigging. Hopper found the deck on the back of the Oxford relatively quiet, but there were several sailors near the two hatches he could see from his vantage. There’d be no way to get past them. He needed to find another way down below. He looked up the rigging and saw that it stretched halfway up the mainmast and ended at a crow’s-nest. Hopper figured he could get a better look at the deck from up there. He reached over to the rigging and pulled himself on. Then he wriggled all the way up to the crow’s-nest.
From the small round platform halfway up the tall mast Hopper could see most of the deck. He gazed down and spotted at least a dozen hatches that looked promising—most within a few yards of a strand of rigging he could access from the crow’s-nest
. In fact, Hopper realized he could get to almost any part of the aft half of the Oxford from the crow’s-nest. He decided he’d make for a little cargo hatch on the portside of the ship.
But as he turned, he looked out over the British fort. He saw the bell tower. It had been his home ever since the big wave. He’d celebrated his tenth birthday in that tower. Then, even though he knew he shouldn’t, he looked past the fort to the sleeping town of New Providence. He could just make out the old gray road. He followed its curving line down into the valley, blinked, and saw a shadowy memory of his father walking with him back from fishing. They were laughing and telling stories, making plans for the next time. He saw them walk up to the first cottage on the left. There was warm yellow light. He knew his mother would be in there, busy with a pudding or some other sweet treat.
Hopper blinked again. He missed his parents. A tear trailed down his cheek.
He slumped down in the crow’s-nest, exhausted from the climb and maybe more from the memory. Hopper closed his eyes and slept.
There came a quick rap at Commodore Blake’s stateroom door, then a voice. “Sir?”
Blake recognized the voice of his new quartermaster, Ezekiel Jordan. “Come in, come in,” said Commodore Blake.
The door opened and Blake’s new quartermaster stepped partially in. He saw that Commodore Blake had company and said, “Beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t know the missis was in here with you. I’ll come back later.”
“Oh, please do come in,” said Lady Dolphin. “You’re always welcome.”
“I agree,” said Commodore Blake. “Mister Jordan, what can I do for you?”
Mr. Jordan’s face reddened. “Well, Commodore, we have a little problem . . . a very little problem.”
Just then a high, heavily accented English voice said, “I ain’t that little!”
Mr. Jordan opened the door the rest of the way, and at his elbow stood the strangest lad Commodore Blake had ever seen. He was completely bald and had no eyebrows to speak of either. His skin was so tan and caked with dark mud that his blue eyes sparkled like gems uncovered in a mine.
“We found him in the crow’s-nest on the mizzenmast. He was fast asleep and right hard to wake.”
“You mean to say, Mister Jordan, no one went to the crow’s-nest until just now, four hours after leaving port?”
Jordan shifted uneasily. “Well, ol’ Timmons was up on the mainmast, we didn’t see no reason to—”
“Oh, the poor thing,” said Dolphin. She went to the boy, knelt beside him, and patted him on the shoulder. “He’s naught but skin and bones wrapped in dirty rags.”
“Wiry skin and bones,” said the quartermaster. “He near kicked me off the crow’s-nest when I tried to grab him. Slick as an eel, he is.”
“A stowaway?” asked Commodore Blake. Jordan nodded. The Commodore stood, walked around his desk, and stooped to look more closely at the lad. “Are you sick, boy?”
“No, Guv’nor, leastways not anyfin’ you kin’ catch.”
“What happened to your hair, your eyebrows?”
The lad looked away and made a loud swallowing sound. “I don’t rightly know,” he said quietly. “It all fell out . . . after the wave.”
“How terrible,” said Dolphin. “You were on New Providence when it flooded?”
The boy nodded and blinked.
Commodore Blake asked, “Where are your—?” He realized suddenly, and said no more.
Tears left muddy streaks down the lad’s face. Dolphin thought her heart would burst for this unfortunate lad. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Nathaniel.”
“All right, Nathaniel, we’ll just—”
“Nobody calls me Nathaniel.”
“Oh, well, what should we call you?”
“Hopper,” he said. “It’s my surname, actually. It’s what I go by.”
“He had this knapsack with him,” said Mr. Jordan. “I think we found the monkey that’s been around the fort pinching everything that’s left untended.”
Commodore Blake looked at the lad. “You’ve been living alone at the fort?” Hopper nodded. “All this time?” Hopper nodded again. “Resourceful lad. We could use someone like you on this trip.”
“Yes, Guv’nor,” said Hopper. “I’m not afraid to work. I’ll work hard, sir, I will.”
“And through your hard work, you’ll pay back what you owe?” Blake asked.
Hopper nodded so hard and so many times Dolphin thought he might harm himself. She gently stopped his chin.
“Right then,” said the commodore. “Hopper, you are officially a deck hand on the HMS Oxford. Mister Jordan, see to it that he’s washed and fitted with new clothing.”
“That won’t be necessary, my husband,” said Dolphin. “I’ll see to it myself.”
“As you wish, my dear,” he replied. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He marveled at his wife’s tender heart. She smiled sweetly back and then whisked young Hopper out of the room.
As soon as he felt Lady Dolphin and the lad were well out of range, Mr. Jordan said, “That’s not what we usually do with stowaways, sir.”
“True, Jordan,” said the commodore. “But Hopper is not the usual stowaway. There is no malice or mischief in his face. Only need . . . and hurt. The sea took his parents, and yet he survived. We would do well to have a lad with such spirit among us. And I have a feeling about him.”
“A feeling, sir?”
“I know, I am not usually prone to hunches. But I feel it now as strong as the sea breeze: young Hopper will make a difference in this world.”
8
AMONG THE RAUKAR
After a three-day journey aboard the Talon, a forty-gun barque purchased in England, Bartholomew Thorne and a skeleton crew of twenty men neared Gotland Island. The vast island, just fifty miles from the Swedish mainland, had been a center of trade and commerce in the Baltic Sea for hundreds of years. Through the years it had hosted many peoples and occupying forces until finally falling back under the domain of the Swedish in 1645, less than one hundred years ago.
But on the south side of the island, far from the teeming markets of Visby, the island’s largest city, dwelt a people who because of their ferocity and iron will had been left alone by those who came and went—and largely by time itself. The Raukar, or “stone ones” as they were sometimes called, were all direct descendants of Viking warriors. Bartholomew Thorne was counting on that for more than one reason.
The Talon was Thorne’s newest ship since the British destroyed the Raven, anchored in Sigvard Bay a few hundred yards from the shore. Massive limestone rock formations stood out like eerie pale faces in the dark water as Thorne’s cutter approached the shore of Gotland Island. “Reminds me of the shards,” muttered Thorne.
“Shards, sir?” asked Edward Teach, Thorne’s new quartermaster.
“Nothing.” Thorne let his mind drift for a moment, replaying his failed attempt to plunder Constantine’s Treasure from the Isle of Swords. His carefully sculpted plan had crumbled because of one man: Declan Ross. No, that wasn’t quite right, he reminded himself. If it had not been for the efforts of his own son, Griffin, Thorne by now would most likely own the Atlantic and the Spanish Main. That day would come, he knew. Thorne fingered his new bleeding stick by his side. Ross and Griffin would feel its bite.
Thorne’s landing party came ashore as the sun set. They kindled torches immediately and passed beneath a bone-white arch, the ruined remains of what must have once been a grand quay. Though Thorne had never been to the island before, it felt familiar to him . . . like a sort of homecoming. He led his men over a rubble-strewn hill and then down a winding path into a heavily forested valley. Carrying a belted leather satchel with as much care as he could, Teach hobbled along behind his captain. Teach was a big, broad-shouldered man, and strong, but even for him, the case was heavy.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Mister Teach,” Thorne replied over his shoulder.
“I’m not co
mplainin’, sir, nothin’ like that,” he said, trying not to grunt from the strain. “But, well, what’s in this here satchel?”
Thorne stopped but did not turn around. “That, Mister Teach, is the only thing that will get us off this island alive.”
Thorne resumed his confident pace. Resolving to let his arms burst before he would drop the satchel, Teach hurried to catch up with his captain.
As the trees began to thin, Thorne and his band began to see flickers of orange through the trunks ahead. An unpleasant sweet smell drifted on the air, and small flies buzzed angrily by. Thorne led his men from beneath the canopy of a huge, sprawling tree. Standing before them suddenly, as if it had been dropped from the sky, was a massive gray fortress. Tall, octagonal towers—all crenelated and crowned with torches—stood between dense and winding expanses of wall. The walls wound back behind the tree line, but it was impossible to tell how far back they went. A relatively small gatehouse waited in the shadows between the two tallest towers, but, other than the torches, there was no sign that any living being remained in this castle.
Thorne hesitated only a moment at the tree line, then marched forward. The others, feeling vulnerable in the open, followed closely behind Captain Thorne. As a line of long arrows peppered the ground a few paces in front of them, all came to a sudden, heart-stopping halt. All but Thorne jumped when a similar line appeared behind them. So many were the shafts and so precise their spacing that it seemed a short fence had risen up from the ground in front and behind them.
“Stanna!” a deep voice commanded from somewhere high on one of the towers. The voice rang out in a language no one but Thorne understood, but the arrows made the meaning clear enough. Thorne and his men scanned the towers and walls and waited. Thorne was not so daunted, and he took one step forward.
“Stanna!” commanded the voice once more. “Om du ar inte av akta blodsforvant, maste ni vanda. Annars moter du samma odet som dom andra!”