Ross leaned back so he was no longer visible in the flickering light of the lanterns. “I’m sure of it. Cat is a pirate.”
13
AN UNEASY ALLIANCE
The William Wallace drifted slowly with the current of the Roseau River on the lower western quarter of the island of Dominica.
The early morning sun was already hot. The humid air was thick with motes and tiny insects. Walls of deep green foliage rose up on both sides of the river. And beyond the treetops towered rugged mountains, dark and stony, impassive and ageless.
Sweat glistened on Red Eye’s bare chest. He dodged another slash from his opponent’s cutlass. A collective gasp whooshed out from the crowd gathered on deck to watch them spar. “Whoa, lad!” Red Eye exclaimed. “That one would’ve put my head in the river!”
Cat grinned but did not let up. He drove Red Eye back toward the mainmast and peppered him with short jabs. But Red Eye was good, one of the best on the ship. He parried and blocked every one of Cat’s attacks. He saw the openings, and, in a real fight, he would have taken Cat down. Still, the kid was pretty solid—better than most—and just shy of amazing for a lad of just . . . what? Fifteen . . . sixteen maybe?
“You’re holding back!” Cat yelled. Red Eye just grinned. He sidestepped a heavy slash and spun around the mast. He knew to bring the attack to the kid. His left hand on his hip, Red Eye unfolded a powerful hacking blow that sent Cat reeling to one knee on the deck. But Cat wasn’t without a trick of his own. He slapped the flat of his blade hard against the deck. It distracted Red Eye for an instant—all Cat needed. He sprang up like a pouncing lion and struck with such a heavy backhanded stroke that Red Eye nearly dropped his sword. Red Eye growled. Enough of this! He moved much faster than Cat imagined. His cutlass became a blur, and Cat found his own sword being battered back and forth with no time for a reply. The next thing Cat knew, his cutlass clattered to the deck, and Red Eye’s blade leveled an inch from Cat’s chest.
“STOP this nonsense!” a voice rang out. The crowd parted and began to scatter as Nubby stomped through, swinging a wooden spoon. Red Eye lowered his cutlass and, oblivious to the rants of the ship’s cook, offered a hand to Cat.
“Well played,” Red Eye said as they shook. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
Cat smiled weakly. His chest heaved out heavy breaths. His thoughts raced. “I don’t know . . . I . . . I just wanted to try.”
“What ’re ya doin’?” Nubby practically shrieked. To Cat’s horror, Nubby lifted the back of his shirt. “Ya trying to open up these wounds again? Ya want to die a gangrenous death?”
“Please . . . don’t!” Cat stepped away, hoping no one, especially not Red Eye, had seen. “I’m sorry. I just wanted some exercise.”
“Exercise? EXERCISE?!” Nubby’s face became almost as red as Cat’s. “Ya can find plenty of that without near killing each other!”
Red Eye swallowed back a laugh. He knew that would only make Nubby angrier. He’d felt the wrath of Nubby’s wooden spoon before and had no desire to feel it again.
“Well,” Nubby went on, “if it’s exercise ya want, I think I can manage a bit for ya! At five bells, get ya down below. I have a mountain of potatoes that need peelin’.”
Nubby wheeled about, lumbered across the deck, and disappeared through an open hatch. Cat shook his head and reached down for the cutlass he’d been using. When he stood up straight, he felt dizzy. I’m exhausted, he thought. Maybe Nubby was right. Cat sighed and handed the cutlass to Red Eye. “Thanks for letting me use this.”
Red Eye held up a hand. “Keep it,” he said. “It suits you.”
“No, I couldn’t. It—”
“Besides,” Red Eye said, turning his back to Cat’s protest. “I have a dozen more down below. Probably buy a few when we go to shore. Ha!”
A dozen more swords, he thought. Cat looked down at his new cutlass and wondered.
The voices came just as the Wallace rounded a bend in the river. After peeling potatoes and eating lunch, Cat had returned to the deck. A massive cliff wall overshadowed the turn in the Roseau. Clefts and nooks in the gray rock gave it the appearance of a scowling skull face.
Adding to the effect, wide violent splashes of red surrounded the two cleft eye sockets. Yellow streaks were painted beneath each eye and down from the corners of the mouthlike cave. They made Cat shiver. And then the voices came.
It’s looking at me, came one voice, young and anxious.
Do not be afraid, answered a woman’s voice, tender . . . loving.
It means we’re almost there.
Cat coughed, fell to one knee on the deck. His ears rang. His vision blurred. He rose, leaned over the rail, and vomited.
Anne watched Cat from her perch in the crow’s-nest on the mainmast. She’d been observing him with a mix of anger . . . and fascination. But when she saw him go down and retch over the side, such thoughts were blasted away by worry. She grabbed the web of rigging and slung herself down to the deck. She ran to him and put a careful hand on his shoulder.
“Cat, what’s wrong?” she said. “What happened?”
“I heard something,” he said, spitting over the side. He didn’t know why he was telling her. But somehow, of all the crew he had met so far, he felt a connection to Anne. “There were voices . . . in my head.”
“Voices?” Anne leaned over the rail to look at him. “Cat, did you remember something?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” He coughed, spat again. “I didn’t recognize the voices. But . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked up at the skull face of the cliff. “I think I’ve been here before.”
“Absolutely not,” Declan Ross said, marching up the stairs from his quarters. Cat was right on his heels. “Not in your condition.”
“But, Captain,” Cat argued. “You saw me climb the rigging. I can handle carrying a few sacks of grain.”
The captain did not turn around but continued striding up on deck. “You’ll be strong as an ox when you’re well, but I heard what happened today with Red Eye. Nubby said you looked like you were about to pass out. And it won’t be just sacks of grain. We’re talking hundreds of pounds of rope, barrels of black powder, and crates of cannon shot. This is heavy stuff.”
“But, sir,” Cat said, and he made the mistake of grabbing the captain’s arm. “I—”
“Don’t!” Ross turned around and brushed off Cat’s arm. “Don’t ever do that again. I am the captain of this ship.” He saw the crestfallen look in Cat’s eyes and wished he hadn’t been so abrupt. He softened. “What on earth has you so on fire to visit the shores of Dominica anyway?”
Cat glowered. “I recognized that face in the cliff.”
Ross looked up at the scowling rock. “That?” He pointed.
“That’s an old warning talisman. Carib Indians painted those rocks years ago to warn the English—and the French—not to come any farther inland. Scary folk, those Carib. Even today, it’s best not to mess around in the forests up north. You’ve seen this place before?”
“I’m not sure,” Cat replied. “But I think if . . . if I go ashore, I might start to remember.”
Ross felt like something had a grapple-hold on his heart. Cat couldn’t remember anything. Not one thing. Here was a chance that he could maybe trigger something, bring his identity back. And yet, Ross knew he had to say no. The thing that really troubled him:
He couldn’t tell if he was saying no purely because he was worried about Cat’s health.
“I’m sorry, Cat,” Ross said finally. “We’ve a lot to do, in a very short time, and we cannot take the risk of you getting yourself hurt.
Besides, the British navy has been known to make port here. If we need to make a hasty exit, we can’t risk you falling behind.”
Ross joined a group of sailors by the rail. They began lowering a cutter into the river. Cat watched and wondered if he’d ever remember who he was.
Cat lay cramped in a hammock slung between two ceiling plan
ks only three feet apart. He figured he should be happy with the accommodations in Stede’s wardroom. He was alone while most of the crew slept in very crowded quarters on the lower gun deck. And the rest of the crew had their hammocks hung with just eighteen inches between them.
The landing party had been gone for several hours. Cat stayed busy for most of that time, but it drove him crazy to see the shores of Dominica and not be able to explore them. So even though there were still many hours of daylight left, he had made his way belowdecks to Stede’s quarters. But sleep did not come, not a hint of it. He swayed gently in the hammock, held his leather pouch on his stomach, and wondered about the contents. The green jewel has to be worth something, he thought. He wondered if he could use it to hire someone to take him back to the island where he had been found. Probably not, Cat decided. He didn’t even know where that island was or what it was called. He didn’t really want to lose the jewel anyway. It might have belonged to him, might be a clue to his identity. Might be.
The tarnished cross with the strange markings was even more puzzling. He’d studied it and discovered that on the long end it was serrated, tiny jags and grooves cut into the metal—almost as if it had been placed in some sort of holder or stand.
But of the three items, none was more vexing than the lock of red hair. It was lush and soft and brilliantly crimson. But whose was it? The thought occurred to him that Anne’s hair was red like that.
But she didn’t know him. They’d just— There came a knock at the door. It was faint and subtle, but Cat was sure there had been a knock. Who? Stede wouldn’t knock. Cat slid out of the hammock and dropped quietly to the ground. His muscles protested. The sparring in the morning had worn him out.
Wounds in various places throbbed dully, reminding him that he wasn’t quite well.
Cat quickly put his leather pouch behind a large conch shell in Stede’s cabinet, the only hiding place he could find. He ambled over, crouched, and put his ear to the door. Another knock, this one a little louder, jolted Cat backward a step. A whispered voice, “Cat?”
He opened the door a crack and peeked out. “Anne?” He stood up and opened the door wide.
“Hurry up,” Anne barked under her breath. She barged past him and shut the door and locked it.
“Anne, what are you doing?” he asked, feeling awkward and somewhat suspicious. “What’s with all the sneaking around?”
“You want to go ashore, don’t you?” she said. He looked at her quizzically. “You said you wanted to go ashore, that you might remember something, right?”
“Y-y-yes,” Cat stammered. “But Captain Ross forbade me. To go would be mutiny.”
“For me, yes,” she replied coolly. “But not for you. My father has no right to keep you on this ship.”
“Your father—”
“Is not someone I like very much right now,” Anne interrupted.
“He doesn’t know you. For all he knows, Dominica could be your home. He’s keeping you captive against your will.” Anne didn’t mention that he’d done the same to her ever since her mother died.
But Anne’s face was red, and her smoldering eyes carried the unspoken message: Do you want to go or not?
Cat hesitated. Seeing the Carib stone face had brought back something, really the first memory of anything. And he longed to investigate Dominica. Still, Captain Ross and the crew had welcomed him aboard, healed him, fed him, gave him quarter—it seemed like betrayal. But . . . what if this is my only chance?
“Come with me, Cat,” Anne said, seeing his reluctance. “Look, we’ll just go for a bit, have a look around, and be back before nightfall. With all the gear and supplies they’re looking for, my father won’t get back to the Wallace until late—maybe tomorrow morning. No one will ever know.”
Cat was desperately intrigued by the possibility, but something still troubled him. Anne seemed different. Gone was the tenderness he’d seen in her before. Now, she seemed spiteful or . . . indifferent.
“Yes. I want to go,” he said at last. “But how will we get off the ship without anyone noticing?”
“Can you swim?”
Cat wondered. “I think so.” He truly had no idea, but earlier he didn’t think he knew what to do with a sword either.
“Good. We’ll drop into the river from the balcony window in my father’s quarters.” She opened the door and motioned for him to follow.
“Anne?” He put a hand on her shoulder. She turned. “For what you’re doing, thank y—”
“Don’t thank me,” she said, turning away from his touch. “I’m not doing this for you.”
14
MAGNIFIQUE JACQUES ST. PIERRE
Saint Pierre’s can’t be much farther,” Ross said, hacking through the overgrown rain forest path’s foliage with his machete.
“How can you be sure this man will have all that our journey will require?” asked Padre Dominguez.
“If there’s anyone in the Spanish Main who will have even the most obscure items or equipment, it’s Jacques Saint Pierre,” Ross said. “I brought you along because I know the goods we’ll need for sea travel, but you’ve been to the Isle of Swords. You know things we’ll need that I’d never think of . . . things like monkey pee.” This earned chuckles and guffaws from Jules, Red Eye, and the twelve other crew members who followed behind the monk.
“This Saint Pierre, can he be trusted?” asked the monk.
“He’s one of the few Frenchmen I know who can be,” Ross replied with a grin over his shoulder. “I just hope he accepts our offering.”
“What?” Padre Dominguez blurted out.
“You’ll see,” said Ross. The crew chuckled some more.
At last, the landing party broke out from under the rain forest canopy. They entered Misson, a surprisingly large town that meandered on both sides of a serpentine road at the base of Mount Macaque. Shops and cottages lined the road, and a huge church made of gray stone sat above the foothills. The sun glistened off its wide stained-glass window, and Padre Dominguez marveled at the sight. Ross led them along a back alley on the side of town that backed up to the mountain. The British navy rarely ventured into Misson, but the French navy certainly did. Ross didn’t want to meet up with either.
They heard the sound of rushing water before they turned the corner to St. Pierre’s mill. White water cascaded down the side of the mountain, traveled down a long wooden chute, and poured into a massive churning wheel. Ross led them around the back of the building. They traversed under the water chute and entered the base of the mill building via a marvelous stone archway. “Jacques built this whole place himself,” Ross said.
Everyone, even those of the crew who had come to the mill with Ross before, gasped as they entered. The place was positively amazing. It was stuffed with every manner of merchandise. Hand-carved furniture, glittering metalwork, barrels full of swords, sacks of grain, and casks of every size and shape littered every square foot of the building. Other items—lanterns, coils of rope, bundled-up sails— hung from the low rafters. There was very little room to walk.
“’Scuse me, Captain,” said Red Eye. “You mind if I stay behind a bit and look at these here pretty swords?”
Ross stopped. “What do you need another sword for?”
“You can never have enough blades,” Red Eye replied. He held up a cutlass with a jagged blade. “Besides, there’s more than the standard cutlass here. Knives, daggers, rapiers . . .” His voice trailed off as he became lost in sword lust.
Ross shrugged. “After we see to our supplies, you can enjoy yourself,” he said. “But you’ll be carrying what you buy, and that only if we have enough hands to bring the rest of the things we NEED back to the Wallace.”
Reluctantly, Red Eye left the barrel of weapons. Ross led the rest up a narrow corridor lined with barrels stacked one on top of another. The other end was lit with soft orange light. This was the part Ross hated, for he knew that these barrels were filled with black powder. And Jacques kept a mighty forge
just around the corner.
Ross’s party exited the corridor and found Jacques St. Pierre hammering away at some white-hot piece of metal on an enormous anvil in front of the forge. He was a short man with wildly curly dark hair, but his wide-brimmed hat overshadowed his face. In spite of the heat generated by the forge, St. Pierre wore a heavy frock coat over a frilly white shirt. Aside from his sleeves, which were rolled up, he looked every bit the courtly gentleman and not in the least like a smith or shopkeeper.
He slammed the hammer down, sending a fount of orange sparks flying. At last, he lifted his head and noticed his visitors. “Oho, mon capitaine!” he announced. Using tongs, he tossed the glowing piece of metal into a barrel of water. “At last you have returned!”
He strode over to Ross and clasped his hand with a grip like iron.
“Hello, Jacques! Looks like you’ve been busy. Waterwheel is still working, I see.”
“Like clockwork, mon ami, like clockwork.”
Ross glanced back up the barrel corridor. “You, uh, sure you want to keep those barrels of black powder so close to your forge?”
Padre Dominguez looked back at the barrels. Black powder?
St. Pierre grinned and twisted his thin moustache. “You pirates worry too much about explosives!”
“Easy to do,” said Ross. “When you’ve seen what one of those going off can do to a ship.”
“Nonsense!” St. Pierre replied with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
“I do not drop hot coals into the barrels. And my barrels do not leak. It is safe. Absolument!”
“But why would you take the risk?” Padre Dominguez muttered, still staring at the barrels.
St. Pierre peered around Ross and looked the monk up and down. “Père, you should have more faith,” he said. “I have no wish to die, but there are many who hunt for me and would see me hung.