“Jacques, take the men,” Ross said. “We’ll meet at your mill. If I’m not there in a few minutes, can you lead them on the east road to La Plaine?”
“Oui, mon capitaine,” he replied.
Jules started to protest, but Ross said, “I’ll find him! He can’t be far. Go on, before the reinforcements show up and catch us all.
Follow Jacques.” Jules nodded, but his glance betrayed much worry and doubt. In a moment, they were gone into the shadows.
Ross ran back past the writhing soldiers at the fountain. Panic beginning to rise in his throat, Ross scanned the woods—every crook and alcove. But there was no sign. “Captain, look out!” It was Cat, but the warning was too late. Something hit Ross hard on the right side of his face. He staggered a few steps and hit the ground. When he looked up, he saw the outstretched blade of Commodore Blake. In his other hand, he held a pistol, leveled at Cat’s chest.
“Get up,” said Blake. “Slowly!”
Ross rose to one knee. He held out his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m getting up . . . just like you said.”
“Drop your sword!” Blake barked. He looked back and forth between Ross and Cat.
“Okay, okay! Just easy with that pistol.” Ross let his sword fall to the ground.
Blake looked at Ross quizzically. “Is this lad your son?”
Ross shook his head. “Then tell me,” said Blake, “who is he that you would risk so much to save him?”
“I already told you,” Ross said, trying to hold the commodore’s eyes with his own. “He’s one of my crew.”
“Really, Captain Ross?” Blake said with contempt. He started to look back at Cat, but too late. “No pirate that I’ve ever heard of—” Cat’s heavy boot slammed into Blake’s hand, sending the pistol flying. Blake grunted and wheeled his saber toward Cat, but Ross had snatched his cutlass from the ground and was there to block.
“Run, Cat!” Declan yelled. But Cat started to run the wrong way. Blake pushed away Ross’s sword and attacked. “No, the other way!” Ross yelled, repeatedly blocking and dodging Blake’s swift blade. “Follow the tree line—argh—to the big church. Then— ah!—head south to the mill with the big waterwheel. I’ll meet you there if I can!”
Cat sprinted away just as rays of the morning sun began to cut through the overcast and streamed red through the mist and smoke.
Ross and Commodore Blake dueled back and forth beside a barn.
Blake was good with a sword—not Red Eye good—but good enough to hold his own for a while. But Ross was stronger and more experienced. He studied Blake’s attack and began to predict each move as it came. Soon, Ross pressed his advantage and caught Blake off balance. It was then that Declan Ross revealed the unique talent that had allowed him to best his enemy in almost every previous duel.
In the blink of an eye, Ross switched hands with his cutlass. Now, using his left hand and powerful backhanded slashes, Ross slammed
Blake’s sword up against the side of the barn. Ross pinned Blake’s weapon there and snapped his right arm, back-fisting the commodore across the cheek and jaw. Blake’s saber clattered to the ground, and he staggered and crashed onto his back. The commodore shook his head, spat, and wiped blood from his lips. He started to reach for his pistol, which lay just a few feet from his outstretched hand. But Ross was there and kicked the gun away. Then Ross drew his own pistol and pointed it at Blake. He did not fire.
He hesitated, looked at the cutlass in his left hand and back to the pistol in his right.
“What’s the matter?” Blake asked. “Can’t decide which way to kill me?”
Ross lowered his cutlass and laughed. “Funny Englishman,” he said with a snort. “No, I have no desire to kill you. In fact—though my da would roll in his grave if he heard me say this—I rather like you. You’re smart.” Ross lowered the hammer of his pistol and bent over to meet Blake’s eyes. “And you treated my Anne like a lady. For that, you live to fight another day. But, since you probably won’t tie yourself up . . .” Ross slammed the end of his pistol against Blake’s head. He groaned and slumped to the ground.
Ross put his pistol back into his belt but did not sheathe his cutlass. Hoping desperately not to run into Blake’s reinforcements, Ross sprinted away. As he followed the path he hoped Cat had taken to the mill, he realized his mistake. In telling Cat how to get to the mill, he had told Commodore Blake where to find them. Ross could only hope that his British enemy wouldn’t regain consciousness until he and his crew were long gone.
22
RACE FOR THE MILL
Wait! Don’t shoot!” cried Midge. He knelt next to a prone Jacques St. Pierre on the balcony on the second floor of his mill. St. Pierre stared down the barrel of a long rifle at a man running frantically toward them from the alley near the church. “Put the gun down, Frenchy! That’s Cat. That’s our boy!”
Midge slapped Jacques on the shoulder before disappearing down the wrought-iron spiral stair. “You almost made me shoot him,” St. Pierre muttered. “Rat-breath idiot!”
They found Cat breathless at the front gate. “Where’s the cap’n?” Jules thundered.
“On the other side,” Cat huffed. “Not far from the cells. He’s fighting Commodore Blake.”
“And you didn’t stay?”
“He ordered me to go,” Cat explained. “I didn’t know what else to do—” Jules opened the gate and hauled Cat inside. He began to lift Cat off his feet.
Red Eye was there in an instant. He put a hand on Jules’s big forearm. “Easy, Jules. The cap’n gave the lad an order. Cat did the right thing.”
“Now, you brawny giant,” said St. Pierre. “If you are so anxious to lift things, get back to the task I gave you. The arrangement is good, yes? But not nearly enough barrels. Keep going, eh?”
Cat turned and noticed rows of barrels stacked two and, in some cases, three high all around the perimeter of the mill. Some were hidden behind short palms and other trees, but many more were in plain sight. “What are you doing?”
“I am, how you say, preparing for guests?” St. Pierre replied with a wink. “It is only a short matter of time, I think, before they will arrive.” St. Pierre laughed. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few more things to make ready.”
The Frenchman trod quickly away and disappeared with Midge into the mill. “What’s in those barrels?” Cat asked. Jules just laughed and walked away.
Ross rounded the bend and saw the church. The rays of the morning sun had turned golden and splashed the enormous stained-glass windows with light. Ross knew the image emblazoned upon the glass, Christ being taken down from the cross. He’d seen it before in artwork and etchings the monks of St. Celestine had shown him. Something about this version, however, penetrated Ross with a horrible, aching sadness. Maybe it was the deep and somber colors upon the glass. Or maybe it was being so close to the large image— the sun shining, making the wounds so visible. His nail-scarred hands and feet, the crown of thorns, his pierced side—it reminded Ross of Cat when Jules cradled his limp body on the day they fought Chevillard. That must be it, Ross thought as he left the church behind him. He did not look back.
Ross was careful to stay in the alleys and in between buildings whenever he could. He had no idea how many soldiers Blake had in Misson. Anne had said there were a lot . . . hundreds. So Ross ran on and stayed hidden. But there was one place, he knew, just before the mill, where there were no back alleys and no tree cover. He’d have an open sprint of two hundred yards where he’d be as visible as a cardinal in a bare tree to anyone in the central market of Misson.
It was coming up soon, but Ross’s view of the marketplace was obscured by the very buildings and trees he’d used for cover. Then he saw a break between buildings up ahead, and he surged ahead for it. He could see the mill, but it seemed a hundred miles away. For as Ross broke free from the cover of the structures and foliage, he saw a huge mass of dark blue marching out of the marketplace toward the mill. British soldiers, more than
he could count.
“It’s him!” Midge exclaimed.
“Are you sure?” St. Pierre asked. They stood at the balcony and looked back and forth between the army of British soldiers advancing on the mill from the west and a lone man sprinting wildly in from the north.
“Don’t you see his coppery beard?” Midge asked. “Y’know, you have bad eyes.”
Not as bad as your breath, thought Jacques.
“It’s Captain Ross, all right,” said Jules. “But will he make it?”
“He had better,” said St. Pierre, a sneer curling on his upper lip.
“The capitaine told me I should lead you to La Plaine. I will be furious if I waited here for nothing!”
Jules looked at the advancing army. “That is a lot of soldiers.”
“All of you, go now to my study and wait,” Jacques commanded.
“I will go to the gate for Declan and meet you. We will make our stand by the forge. Ha-ha!” St. Pierre raced out of the room. The others heard his frenzied cackles from the stairwell, and he was gone.
“He told the lad to make for the mill,” said Commodore Blake, pointing ahead with his saber. He marched at the front of his men.
His head throbbed ferociously from the knot Ross had given him.
And he very desperately wanted to settle the score.
“Do you think we will arrive in time?” asked Sir Nigel beside him.
“I do not know how long I was unconscious,” Blake growled.
“But we will descend upon that mill like locusts. And for the love of king and country, we will find Captain Ross and his men!”
“Look, there!” yelled one of his men. And then they all saw it. A man had raced out of the trees up ahead and seemed in an awful hurry to get to the mill.
“That’s him!” cried Commodore Blake. “Now for it, lads! Do not let him get to the mill!”
“I hate not being able to see what’s going on!” Cat said as he paced in St. Pierre’s study.
“I feel the same,” said Red Eye, sheathing a dagger at his side.
“But we’ve got to be ready. Arm yourself better than that, lad.” He picked up one of the pistols on the wide table and tossed it to Cat.
“Wait,” said Jules. “No guns.”
“What?” Midge looked up. He had four pistols and room for two more in a bandolier across his chest.
“Saint Pierre said no guns,” Jules explained.
“I’m keeping them,” said Midge, patting the weapons. “They’re my babies. Besides, the blasted British will have guns, like as not.”
“Yeah, Jules!” said Red Eye. “Why would he tell us not to use our pistols?”
Jules shook his head. “I don’t know exactly,” he said, though his eyes were bright with suspicion. “I think it has something to do with those barrels of black powder he had me stacking all over the place since we got back.”
Midge’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, say, Jules,” he said. “’Bout how many barrels of powder you think he’s got stacked up round here?”
“More than a hundred,” Jules replied.
“Oh.” Midge hurriedly removed all his pistols and tossed them on the table.
St. Pierre stood at the wrought-iron gate and waved madly at Ross.
“Dépêchez-vous!” he cried. “They are almost upon you!” He looked to the left. The British closed rapidly. The sun gleamed off their bayonets and sabers. But Ross was closer.
The captain of the William Wallace charged through the gate, yelling, “Shut the gate! Shut the gate!” as he skidded to a stop beside St. Pierre. “Jacques, what are you still doing here?” he asked.
“Pardonne, mon capitaine,” St. Pierre replied. “I could not abandon you to this fate you seem to desire. And I will not just abandon my mill to the British for their looting pleasure. No!” He glanced at the storm of Englishmen approaching. “Now, mon capitaine, are we so polite as to hold the door for our enemy?”
Ross shook his head vigorously.
“Follow me!” St. Pierre led an astonished Declan Ross quickly past a wall of barrels and through the heavy wooden door into the mill. This he closed, locked, and barred.
“That won’t hold them for long,” Ross said. He turned and started to say something else, but saw the stacks of barrels now on both sides of the hall. “Jacques, what are you doing?”
Jacques St. Pierre did not answer. He knelt by the barrel closest to the door, tugged for a moment, and yanked out its stopper. Black powder immediately began to pour out onto the floor. St. Pierre went methodically from one barrel to the next, pulling out their plugs and letting the powder spill out.
“Jacques, what are you doing?” Ross repeated, his voice growing high and edgy.
Thump. Thump! THUMP!! Sudden, sharp banging at the door made Ross jump. He skidded in the spilled black powder and almost fell. “Ah, our guests are here,” said St. Pierre.
“Open up in the name of the British Royal Navy!” came a voice.
Ross grabbed St. Pierre by the shoulders. “Have you lost your mind, Jacques?”
“A long time ago, my friend. Ha-ha!” He looked down at the floor. From the door, halfway to the forge, it was covered in black powder. “Let us get the others, and we shall see if the English have the stomach for my little game.”
St. Pierre ran down the hall with Ross hollering behind him.
“Jacques, we can’t play games with black powder!”
“I can!” he called back. St. Pierre slammed open the study door.
“Gentlemen, it is time!”
“Where’s the captain?” Jules demanded.
“Right here,” Ross said, appearing in the doorway. More shouts came from the other room, muffled by the door at the end of the hall.
“Open this door or we shall break it down!”
“Captain, what do we do?” Midge asked.
Ross looked at St. Pierre. The Frenchman winked, fished out yet another key from the ring that hung on his belt, and opened a cabinet. He quickly took something out, jammed it into a large inner pocket of his surcoat, and winked again.
Ross watched him shrewdly. “Jacques has a plan.”
St. Pierre nodded, gestured for them to follow, and hurried out of the room. He led them to the forge, a three-foot cube of gray and black masonry. He opened its heavy cast-iron door, illuminating himself in an angry reddish-orange. Then he lit a torch from the glowing embers inside. He closed the forge and held up the torch for all to see.
“Now, we wait,” he said.
23
THE END OF DECLAN ROSS
Hours earlier, while Ross and Red Eye were in Misson trying to spot Cat’s cell, Stede stood at the wheel of the William Wallace and bade farewell to the scowling Carib face painted high on the mountainside.
“Douse the lights!” Stede ordered as soon as they were underway. Cromwell and several others went from lantern to lantern, snuffing the wicks within. It was probably all for naught, Stede knew. The sun would be up by the time the Wallace approached open sea. If the British were there, they’d see the Wallace. And all would be lost.
But when the morning sun was already climbing into the sky and the Wallace made its final turn in the Roseau River, Stede began to think they had escaped after all. “They’re not here,” he whispered.
Padre Dominguez lowered his hood. “Well done, Quartermaster!”
The Wallace surged into the Caribbean Sea. Stede navigated around the shallower waters and began to swing the ship to a more easterly course. “Look!” Cromwell pointed off the stern.
“Oh no,” Stede mouthed as he saw four British warships coming swiftly toward them from the west.
“Can we outrun them?” Padre Dominguez asked.
Stede shook his head. “The frigates, maybe. But they got two schooners, mon. They’ll b’ on us before we can blink.”
At the mill, St. Pierre and the others did not need to wait long for Commodore Blake and his men. Something heavy crashed into the other side of the door. The door
shivered. A second strike, and they heard a loud crack. A dusty beam of sunlight shone in for just a moment. With a horrendous ruckus, the door burst open. Several British soldiers carrying a hunk of lumber the size of a tree trunk stepped aside. In walked Commodore Blake and his men.
“Stop!” Jacques St. Pierre commanded. He alone emerged from behind the forge. He held his torch aloft and said again, “Stop! You are trespassers here!”
Blake held up a hand to halt his men. “Frenchman, you have already signed your arrest warrant! Who are you to stand in the way of British military business?”
“I am Jacques Saint Pierre,” he replied. “And you have no business here. I do not fear England, I do not fear you, and as you will see . . . I do not fear death!” Ross and his crewmen stepped out and stood beside Jacques. The Frenchman smiled, raised an eyebrow, and glared at Commodore Blake.
“Jacques Saint Pierre?” Blake said. He turned to the man standing next to him. “Sir Nigel, why do I know that name?”
The dark-haired man stepped forward. “Jacques Saint Pierre is wanted for trading goods with known pirates, for high thievery against the East India Trading Company, and for sabotaging the HMS Surrey on the Barbary Coast.”
“Aw, that last one was never proven!” exclaimed Jacques.
“Be that as it may,” Blake said with a wry smile. “There are certainly enough charges to justify your arrest. And after your deeds early this morning . . .” Blake raised a pistol. “I do not care whether we take you dead or alive.”
“Commodore,” St. Pierre said calmly. “I would not fire that pistol in here, if I were you.”
“Why not?”
St. Pierre pointed at the commodore’s feet. He and the other British soldiers looked down and saw the black powder. The color drained from their faces. “I apologize for the mess,” Jacques explained. “You see the barrels stacked head high on either side of you? I am afraid they are leaking their black powder, and I have not had time to sweep.”
Commodore Blake’s mouth hung open as he looked at his pistol and understood St. Pierre’s implication. “A stray spark,” Jacques continued, “from the flintlock of that pistol might just fall into the powder, mon ami. And that would be the end of us all.”