Is that me? he wondered desperately. Feeling suddenly very tired, Cat wrote an “L” and a “T.” And then, in much smaller letters, “Cat.”
Once again, the crew shouted out hurrahs. Even as Cat drifted slowly away from the articles, the crew cheered him and softly patted him on the shoulder.
When Anne came forward, however, some of the crew backed out of the circle near the mast. While Drake did not back away, he made his displeasure known by staring at the ground and shaking his head. But nothing could sour this moment for Anne. She had even worn her best womanly pirate garb. This consisted of a black wool skirt, a dark green tunic, and a lacy white blouse beneath. Bad luck indeed, she thought.
She put her hand over the Bible. When she did, the entire scene on the deck of the Wallace seemed to change. It was no longer the coarse wooden deck of an aging brigantine. It was a polished floor. The sea air became fragrant. The cry of the gulls, the slap of the waves against the hull, and the jostle of the rigging became like music. For Anne, this was the first day of her life’s dream.
“Do ya, Anne Ross, swear an oath to obey and uphold the articles of the William Wallace? If that b’ yer wish, so say ya, ‘aye.’”
The words were barely out of his mouth when Anne shouted, “Aye!” She snatched up the quill pen and hastily signed her name.
Half of the crew cheered, and Jules put Anne up on his shoulder.
But Drake walked away, fingering the handle of his dagger and muttering. “Trouble will come of this . . . make no mistake. A woman should ne’er be part of this crew or any. Bad luck, it is.”
29
OF SLAVES AND CAPTAINS
Captain Ross sat with his feet up on his desk. Stede and Jacques St. Pierre sat near him. “A hull full of provisions and calm seas make life easy enough,” Ross said. “But this journey is not likely to remain so peaceful. If we face half the perils the monk told us about, we’re going to need more men.”
Stede agreed. “The battle with Chevillard took more than a third of the crew, Cap’n.”
“When we reach the Caicos,” said St. Pierre, “I will talk to a man I know. He ventures in—what do you call it—black gold.”
“Slaves?” Ross glowered. “I don’t barter people’s lives!”
St. Pierre was taken aback for a moment but returned fire. “Oh, you do not? Then tell me, mon capitaine, how did you get all these men that sail with you now? Surely these were taken from past conquests and pressed into your service.”
Ross took his feet down from the desk and leaned forward. “You must not have read the articles very carefully,” he said. “Article Two . . . we shall not impress men into service.”
“Sadly, no,” admitted Jacques. “I did not read that very carefully.
I was slightly more absorbed by Article Three.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Ross. The anger passed. He leaned back, folding his hands behind his back, and explained, “Not one of the crew was forced into service. Many served with me as privateers before all this. As for the others . . . each man chose to come aboard and sail with me. You’d be surprised, Jacques.
These merchant ships, these Spanish galleons, even His Majesty’s privateers—they are captained by tyrants. They break the backs of their crew and pay them next to nothing. We gain a dozen good sailors with each ship we raid.”
“And, when we b’ going to port,” said Stede, “we find many a good mon wasting away with no wark to do. Men who know nothing but the sea, and can’t find a job to feed their families.”
Jacques nodded. “I understand these young men. They are much like the French sailors who King Louis trained to be warriors at sea.
But when the fighting ended, the king abandoned them. With no money, no command, no other trade—they turned to the piracy.”
“Have ya met any of them?” Stede asked.
“Met them? I am one of them. But I had a skill they did not possess. I could—how do you say—broker deals between rich men.
Ha-ha!”
“It is the same in England,” Ross said. “The same everywhere.
Good men—honest men—turn to the sweet trade because they cannot earn a living any other way.”
“The sweet trade? Ha!” St. Pierre laughed. “It is a funny name for stealing, no? We are thieves!”
“Yes,” Ross replied quietly. “Yes, we are.” His mind was turbulent, like the sea during a squall. The Treasure of Constantine, if it is really on this Isle of Swords, and if we could really find it . . . that would be more than enough, Ross thought. He and all the crew could at last leave the so-called sweet trade and live—settle, start a farm, raise a family. I might finally get Anne away from the sea. “Jacques,” Ross said, “we’ll find men on the Caicos to augment the crew, but they’ll not be slaves.”
St. Pierre snorted. “And just how will you get them to join you?”
“Weren’t you listening, Jacques?” Ross replied. “I’ll ask.”
“I know,” said the quartermaster as he stood. “I b’ setting a course for the Caicos. Now, if we could just get some more wind to fill them sails, we might get there before winter!”
Edmund Scully’s sloop was lighter and faster than most ships at sea.
But it could not go fast enough for Scully—not with the news he’d just collected from the British. Thorne seemed desperate for information concerning Declan Ross. “Oh, do I have some,” Scully muttered as his sails caught a stiff wind. The sloop raced across the sea toward Isla Mona.
Declan Ross sat in his quarters and pored over a sea chart under the light of a single candle. Confound the monk! he thought, jamming the point of his quill pen into a bottle of ink.
“Are you angry with me?”
“What?” Ross looked up. His daughter stood in the doorway.
“Oh, Anne . . . I didn’t know you were standing there.” In the flickering light, he was amazed how grown-up his little girl had become . . . how much she now looked like her mother. He stared.
“Are you angry with me?” she asked again, biting her bottom lip.
“With you? No,” he replied, motioning for her to enter. “It’s the wind. We’re making no speed at all.”
Anne nodded. “The wind . . . are you sure that’s all it is?”
“You’re just like your mother.” He laughed. “See right through me. Truth be told, it’s the monk, Padre Dominguez. I’m trying to plot our course for the Isle of Swords. But he won’t show me the map, and he’s not telling me everything! All I know is the island’s supposed to be west of Portugal. That helps! He says it’s his insurance that I’ll see to his safety. Pretty smart, actually. But it’s maddening not to know.”
“When he gets to know you better,” said Anne, “he’ll trust you more.”
“Maybe.” He looked back down to the chart.
Anne rocked back and forth on her heels. “So you’re not mad?”
“Anne,” Ross growled. “Mad about wha—oh—that.”
“I can do this, Father,” she said, tears already streaming. “I won’t let you down . . . again.”
“Come, sit,” he said, pointing to the chair at the corner of his desk.
She sat and stared at the floor. Her crimson hair fell like curtains around her face. Declan reached through and lifted her chin. “All’s forgiven,” he said, locking her eyes onto his and taking her hands.
“You made a mistake, and it could have cost us a lot. But you owned up to it, and in the end . . . you saved us from capture. And, you’ve no doubt earned the respect of the men.” He laughed. “I’ve never seen a crew so willing to be whipped!”
The corners of her mouth curled into a slight smile. He could always make Anne smile. It was one of the few things he could do right for his child. “I had half a mind to jump in there and take a lash or two myself !”
“Father, stop!” But now Anne laughed through her tears. The laughs stopped eventually, and they stared at each other for a quiet moment. She kissed him on the cheek and said,
“Thank you.”
Declan Ross felt about as good as he’d felt in years. For once, he’d managed to build Anne up . . . to strike a chord in that complicated heart of hers. She got up to leave, walked a few steps toward the door, and turned back toward him. Still smiling, she flung back her hair and wiped the tear streaks with her hand.
Declan smiled, plucked the pen out of the inkwell, and went back to the chart.
“You didn’t want me to sign the articles, did you?” Anne asked.
Her father looked up, his smile disappearing. “The crew voted for you to join.”
“That’s not the same, Father,” whispered Anne. “I want you to want me to be a pirate. Did you or didn’t you want me to sign the articles?”
“Anne, you know how I feel about thi—”
“But why? I work hard. I have skills. I know the sea pretty well.
I’ve learned all there is to learn about this ship—from you, mostly.”
“It’s not that,” Ross replied. His reddening face felt hot. “You have very good sea legs. You’re smarter than most of the lads.”
“Then why, Father? Why do you spend so much time encouraging them and not your daughter? I’ve seen you. You find some skill in each of the men, some talent—no matter how small. You cheer them on. You celebrate whatever they accomplish.”
“Anne, I’m the captain of this ship. I have to—”
“But you don’t do that for me. . . . I bet you don’t even know what my last coral carving was.”
Ross stammered, guessing: “I, uh . . . it was a dolphin.”
“A dolphin? I haven’t carved a dolphin since I was a little girl.”
She sighed. “I don’t understand. The things I like, the things I want to do—either you don’t care . . . or you just tell me no.”
Ross rubbed his temples and shook his head. Once again, things had somehow spun out of control. His breathing became more rapid. He could hear his heartbeat pulsing in his head. To avoid breaking it, he put the quill back in the inkwell. “I do care, Anne,” he said as evenly as he could.
“Let me show you that I can be a great pirate.”
“But I promised your mother. I—”
“When did you promise her, Father?!” Her voice became shrill.
“You were out to sea when she . . . when she killed herself.”
“What did you say?” Ross stood. He could barely breathe.
Anne started to tremble. She knew she’d gone too far, but she kept going. “I know you and Aunt Isabel always told me Mother died of the pox, but when we were in port two years after, I heard you and old Mrs. Penniworth talking. I heard you say it.”
“Abigail—your mother—did not kill herself !” Ross yelled.
“How do you know?” Anne asked. “You weren’t even there.”
The moment the words were gone from her lips, she wished she could get them back. She watched the anger in her father’s face bleed away into a sad kind of exhaustion. He looked old. He sounded old when he said, “Go to your quarters.”
“I’m sorry, Father, I shouldn’t have—”
“I command you to go to your quarters, NOW!”
When Anne was gone, Declan Ross sank back into his chair and hunched over the sea charts. He remembered that day, so long ago.
With the Wallace full of gold and other prizes, he’d made port in Edinburgh, ready for a kiss from his wife and a hero’s welcome.
He’d received neither.
He remembered the way everyone treated him so strangely. He remembered when Isabel, his wife’s sister, gave him the news. He hadn’t believed it then. And he didn’t believe it now. Abigail did not take her own life. One day, he’d prove it.
But none of that changed the fact that she was gone. And none of that changed the fact that Anne was right. When Abigail died, he hadn’t been there to protect her. He was out to sea . . . just like now.
Isabel had offered to let Anne stay with her, but he’d refused. It was one of a thousand decisions he’d probably wonder about for the rest of his life.
Declan Ross strode across the main deck just after sunrise. It had been a rough night. Little sleep. Too many unknowns—Anne being chief among them. He nodded to Stede and continued on. This time of the morning, he liked to go up on the forecastle deck at the front of the ship. With the deck all to himself, he could stare out at the endless horizon. And somehow, his thoughts would come together.
He climbed the ladder and went right to the rail and . . . and there was Cat.
“Cat,” Ross said, “this isn’t your watch.”
“I know,” Cat replied. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Ross nodded. They were quiet for some time, each busy with his own thoughts.
“It’s nice up here,” Cat said, and he smiled.
But Ross could tell that something troubled him. “You regret your decision?” he asked. “Joining the crew?”
Cat looked sharply at the captain and lowered his eyes. “I like the crew,” he said. “I like being on the ship. I love being out on the water.” Cat laughed. “It’s so odd, though, knowing how to do things, learning so fast. Seems like I was born for the sea, but . . . I don’t know.”
“You’re wondering if you should be a pirate?”
Cat nodded, embarrassed. “I think that’s pretty much it.” He looked out over the water to the clouds, gray-blue and strangely flat.
Ross fixed a shrewd eye on Cat and stroked his coppery beard a few times. “It’s hard because so many pieces of your past are missing. But I’ll tell you something that’s as sure as Stede’s hand at the wheel. You, my lad, were a pirate before you ever set foot on the William Wallace.”
30
THREE FATEFUL DECISIONS
I don’t understand,” said Padre Dominguez. “We have provisions. Why do we need to stop again?”
Padre Dominguez pressed his hands onto the front of Ross’s desk. Leaning forward and staring with those black eyes, he was an imposing man.
“Our crew is capable, but for this kind of journey we’ll need more men,” said Ross, his feet up, leaning back, and a knowing grin curling at his lips. “Besides, we don’t have all the provisions, Padre.
Let’s not forget the monkey pee that you seem to think is essential for our success.”
“Not essential,” said the priest. “But it would be extremely helpful. Still . . . it may not prove worth the delay.”
“Delay?” Ross waved a hand dismissively. “I’m as anxious to get to the treasure as any, but we’re the only ones with a map. We’re the only ones who know how to get to the Isle of Swords . . . right?”
The monk looked away. He said nothing.
Ross let his feet down with a thump. “No . . . no, you must be joking,” said Ross. “You said Thorne was coming after you because you have the only map tattooed right there on your back.”
“Those were not my words.”
“Don’t play games, Padre . . . what are you saying?”
“There may be . . . one other,” the monk explained. “You see, the priests in charge of my order have utilized the talents of a small tribe native to the Marquesas Islands in the Pacific. These people are primitive and somewhat superstitious, but they have unequaled skill in the art of tattooing. They were ideal for our needs, but not just for their tattoos. The Marquesans believe that once youths have reached the age of fourteen—the age where innocence ends—evil is the only thing that will come out of their mouths when they speak.
To prevent this, and as a rite of passage into adulthood, the Marquesans clip their tongues and cut their vocal cords.”
Ross winced. “How horrendous.”
“Yes,” said Padre Dominguez. “But you see how this custom suits our need for secrecy?”
“Of course. The natives draw the tattoo, but will never be able to tell anyone where to find the Isle of Swords.”
“That is what the priests of my order have counted on over the years. These obscure islands in the Pacific hide a more obscu
re tribe who, even if they should be found, are not able to speak. For more than three centuries this arrangement has served us well.”
“But?”
“But someone found the Marquesans. A woman, a female pirate.
We do not know how she discovered this secret or even how she knew where to begin to look. But she found the man who created my tattoo . . . and bribed him with rubies. From memory, he redrew the map for her.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Katarina Thorne.”
Ross banged a fist on the desk and stood up. “Hang me by the yardarm . . . Bartholomew Thorne’s wife?! If she has it . . . it won’t be long before she hands it over to him.”
“Yes, but we are reasonably certain that Katarina Thorne was killed before she could have given the map to Bartholomew. There were terrible storms in the Pacific that season. She must have perished.
Otherwise, he would not have needed to come looking for me.”
Ross took a deep breath and nodded. “I suppose that makes sense, but then why are we in such a hurr—wait a minute! What if . . . what if she betrayed him? After his first wife died, Bartholomew wasn’t exactly civil with women. How do you know Katarina didn’t just go to the Isle of Swords herself and cut her husband out of the prize?”
“You are a shrewd man, Declan Ross,” said Padre Dominguez as he turned to leave. “That is why we are in such a hurry to get to the Isle of Swords.”
“Jacques Saint Pierre?” Thorne said, marveling at the name. “So he’s thrown in with Declan Ross, has he?”
“It is certain to be so,” said Scully. “My source claims that Ross’s brigantine sailed from the eastern coast of Dominica less than three days ago. Jacques Saint Pierre has not returned to what’s left of his mill in Misson.”