All at once, her right foot lurched forward. It was only a couple of inches, but it was a step — her first since the accident. Star teetered for an instant and stabilized. Her left foot moved next, followed by the right again. The cart and pole rolled with her as she moved in a slow staccato pace down the hall.
“I’m walking!” she cried in amazement.
It all came apart in an instant. The tray overturned, sending surgical instruments flying. Overbalanced, she pulled the IV pole down on top of herself. English swooped forward and caught her a split second before she would have hit the floor.
In her astonishment, the near miss barely even registered with her.
“I walked,” she whispered in disbelief. “I’m going to walk.”
* * *
When Adriana saw the message from her brother, she felt guilty immediately. How many times had she sat here in Poseidon’s computer lab? Never once had she e-mailed Payton.
Jealousy, she admitted to herself. He got to go with Uncle Alfie, and I didn’t.
For the past two summers, the Ballantyne kids had been working with their uncle at the British Museum. This year, Alfred Ballantyne had only been allowed one assistant on his Syrian archaeological dig. He had chosen Payton. That was what had brought Adriana to Poseidon in the first place. It was her consolation prize.
Hi, Ade.
Sorry I haven’t e-mailed sooner. Uncle Alfie has been keeping me pretty busy, but that’s no excuse. Nobody can dig twenty-four hours a day, not even in the desert, where there’s nothing else to do.
Two shipwrecks! And I’m stuck here, where it takes eleven hours to brush the sediment off an old jug. I’ll bet you’re having the time of your life….
She wondered how envious he’d be if he knew that the captain was gone, and Star might never walk again.
Anyway, here’s the thing: Uncle Alfie told me about the problem of the bone handle. Why an English artifact on a Spanish galleon? Well, I did a little Web surfing. Guess what? An entire English privateer fleet was caught in the very same hurricane that sank Nuestra Señora. And that’s not all.
Check out the Internet address below. Let’s see if you come to the same conclusion I did. Then I’ll know I’m not crazy….
Adriana felt a twinge of annoyance. Why does this have to be all about Payton? He’s half a world away!
But she was also intrigued. She maneuvered her mouse to the link and clicked.
The site was British, maintained by the U.K. government’s Ministry of Overseas Trade and Commerce. It was a record of English shipping in 1665 — the year of the storm that had sunk Nuestra Señora.
According to the register, a privateer fleet had indeed sailed from the port of Liverpool in April of that year. Nine of eleven ships survived the Atlantic crossing to carry out a successful attack on the Spanish settlement of Portobelo. The storm struck in September near the infamous Hidden Shoals. There, the English flagship, a barque called the Griffin, was lost with all hands.
Adriana leaned back in her chair, frowning. What was Payton getting at? That the deeper shipwreck might be the Griffin? And the J.B. handle came from there?
But it didn’t make sense. Star had found that artifact in the wreckage of Nuestra Señora, up on the reef.
Then it hit her.
The biggest mystery in all this wasn’t the handle. It was the question of what had happened to the galleon’s huge treasure. All at once, Adriana had the answer.
Privateers were sponsored by governments, but they were basically just pirates. Their mission was to raid, loot, and sink the shipping of their countries’ enemies.
If the Griffin had met up with Nuestra Señora de la Luz on the high seas, it would have attacked. And if they were successful, the privateers would have stolen every single coin on board.
What, then, if the hurricane of 1665 had destroyed both vessels? One, a Spanish galleon with an empty hold, foundered on the reef. And the other, an English barque, packed to the gunwales with plunder, sank not far away in the deeper water just off the shoal.
“Way to go, Payton!” she cheered aloud.
It was an amazing theory, a brilliant theory. It explained everything — why there was no treasure to be found in the Nuestra Señora site, and why all evidence pointed to the existence of that treasure in the second, deeper wreck.
It was perfect, Adriana reflected, but it was just a theory. There was still no proof that the other ship really was the Griffin, or that she had ever had any contact with Nuestra Señora. Adriana felt herself deflating as the elation deserted her. Payton’s logic was inspired; it was probably even correct. But it was incomplete.
She was just about to close her computer’s Internet browser when she saw it — a small detail on the British Web site.
According to the records, the Griffin had been under the command of Captain James Octavius Blade.
James Blade.
J.B.
They were a strange procession down the hall of the hospital of the Antilles Oil platform. Star was at the center, taking baby steps, hanging on to the handles of a walker. Kaz, Adriana, and Dante matched her slow pace, leaning into the hushed conversation.
“Captain James Blade,” whispered Star. “How cool is that? I wonder what he was like? Maybe some kindly grizzled old sailor, hobbling around on a cane with a bone handle.”
“He was a privateer, Star,” Adriana reminded her. “They were as bad as pirates, sometimes worse. He may have hobbled, but he wasn’t kindly.”
“Or he was a maniac with a whip,” put in Kaz.
“The point is, he was a rich maniac,” said Dante. “Or he would have been if his boat hadn’t sunk. Can you imagine that feeling? All your dreams are coming true, and then — ”
“I can,” Star said huskily. “I’ll never dive again.”
Kaz didn’t mean to snap, but the thought of Drew Christiansen set off an avalanche of emotion. “Don’t you think that’s a little nitpicky? You could be in a wheelchair right now!”
Star’s eyes flashed, but she nodded sadly. “I know how lucky I am.”
“When are you heading back to the States?” Adriana asked Star.
“Friday morning. Poseidon doesn’t want me on the catamaran, so we have to wait for an oil company helicopter to Martinique.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” said Kaz.
“My dad can’t miss any more work,” Star mumbled. “The choppers don’t run every day. We’ve got to grab this one.”
They nodded lamely.
“The thing is” — Star looked from face to face — “people like Cutter, treasure hunters, they spend decades searching, all for nothing. But between Dante’s eyes, Adriana’s smarts, and Kaz’s guts, we did the impossible. I mean, we found two needles in the world’s biggest haystack. If only I could dive, I’d — ”
“You’d what?” challenged Dante. “Swim down to seven hundred feet and bag up a billion dollars? It can’t be done.”
“It can, you know,” Adriana argued. “English can do it. The oil-rig divers go that deep all the time. What did they call it?”
“Saturation diving,” Kaz supplied. “But that’s a big operation — a diving bell, special breathing gas, a support ship — ”
“Maybe English and his friends can get the treasure for us,” suggested Dante. “One-point-two billion — you can split it a lot of ways and still come out loaded.”
“Are you kidding?” exclaimed Star. “English hates treasure hunters. Why do you think he’s so mad at Cutter?”
“We’re not treasure hunters,” Dante argued. “We’re just people who happen to know about some treasure. And we may as well get it, because it isn’t doing anybody any good sitting around in the mud.”
“And the money goes to charity, of course,” Adriana added sarcastically.
“What’s so bad about wanting money?” Dante shot back. “I don’t see your family giving away its millions. Come on, let’s just ask the guy.”
“It looks like
you’re going to get your chance,” observed Kaz.
They had reached the door of Star’s hospital room. There, seated on the edge of the bed, his face unsmiling as always, sat English.
Pushing the walker, Star led the way inside. “Look how fast I’m getting. Think they’ve got some kind of NASCAR for these things?”
The dive guide got to his feet, towering over the interns. “Bon. You are all here. Now you will tell me — on Deep Scout, exactement what did you find?”
“Sure.” Adriana explained their theory of the wrecks of Nuestra Señora de la Luz and the Griffin, and the vast treasure that lay in the ruins of the second ship. “We can’t be positive, but we’re ninety-nine percent sure. The J.B. handle proves it. Captain Blade must have lost his walking stick or whip during the battle over Nuestra Señora. That’s why we found an English artifact in a Spanish galleon.”
“One billion American dollars,” English repeated gravely.
“One-point-two,” amended Dante.
“We didn’t think you wanted to know,” put in Kaz. “Every time treasure came up, you got mad. What’s the big interest now?”
English rested his chin on an enormous fist. “At Poseidon, I see Monsieur Cutter’s name on the schedule for use Tin Man. Such equipment is not for working on the reef. I think he tries to find this treasure for himself.”
“But Cutter doesn’t even know about the second ship,” argued Kaz.
“Perhaps he knows more than you think.” English paused reluctantly. “You must not jump on the conclusions. But this thing you should hear: The damage to Deep Scout — this was not the shark attack. It was the sabotage.” He explained the tampering he’d observed on the fiberglass plates that covered the sub’s temperature probe.
The interns were horrified.
“Cutter!” Adriana exclaimed. “He killed the captain!”
“He could have killed all of us,” added Star. “And he nearly put me in a wheelchair.”
“I always knew he was a jerk,” put in Kaz. “But I never thought he was a murderer.”
“I have no proof, me,” English said sternly. “When I talk to him, he seems very surprised. Conviction without trial — this is not civilized.”
“But how else could he know about the deeper wreck?” Dante persisted.
“We have a saying — on a small island, all the world knows your underwear size. A secret — on Saint-Luc there is no such thing. Me, I do not accuse Monsieur Cutter of murder — yet. Alors, however he learns of this treasure, I think he dives for it Saturday.”
“We’ve got to stop him,” Star exclaimed determinedly. “Otherwise we’re letting him get rich off the captain’s death.”
“Stop him,” repeated English. “How to do this?”
“By beating him to the treasure,” Kaz reasoned. “You know saturation diving; I know where the wreck is. I’ll go with you.”
“Absolument, no.”
“I made it to three hundred feet; I can do this, too.”
English nodded. “You are brave, monsieur. But you are a boy, and no boy is ready for the sat dive.”
Kaz stuck out his chin. “I can dive in a helmet; I can handle an air hose; I can sit in a chamber and decompress — ”
“Ah, oui,” English interrupted. “All these things you can learn. But I ask you this: You have been on my island for more than a month. How many old divers do you see? And the men who yet live, they limp, they ache from the bends, from the arthritis, from the injury. You are children from a wealthy country where danger is for the daredevils. I must do this job — I cannot trade the shares on Wall Street. You have the choice. Be smart.”
“It’s the only way to stop Cutter,” argued Kaz. “And you can’t do it without me.”
“And me,” added Adriana. “This is plundered Spanish treasure in the wreckage of an English privateer! Living history! I have to be a part of it.”
“Not me,” said Dante. “I’ll do what I can; I’ll help on the boat. I swore I’d never dive again.”
“Bravo,” English approved. “Someone has the intelligence.”
“It can work,” Kaz persisted. “You know it can.”
English thought it over. “We will need a ship,” he said finally. “A bell. Crew who can be trusted. Très difficile — ”
“But not impossible,” Kaz finished.
The guide took a deep breath. “I will try, me.”
Star sat down on the bed. “I can’t believe I won’t be going down there with you.”
“We’ll e-mail you,” Adriana vowed. “You’ll get every detail.”
Star regarded the friends who had been closer than family for the past few weeks. “I’ll miss you guys,” she told them soberly. “I hope we can figure out a way to keep in touch back home.”
“If this works, we’ll be millionaires,” Dante reminded her. “Plane tickets are chicken feed compared to the kind of money we’re going to have.”
Star choked on the notion that this was really good-bye. “I’d trade it all for the chance to go on one more dive with you.”
08 September 1665
Samuel had tasted battle before, but the long slow approach to the galleon brought out in him a cold, numbing dread he would not have believed possible.
“Why do they not flee?” he whispered to York. “Or fire upon us? Do they not understand our intentions?”
“See how she lists, boy,” the barber pointed out. “She’s aground. A reef, mayhap. There are treacherous shoals in these seas.”
Suddenly, smoke and flame belched from the galleon’s gun ports. The roar of the volley echoed across the water. Lethal shot came screaming in on the barque. With a sickening crunch, a cannonball shattered a section in the stern, well above the waterline. The deck collapsed for a few feet around it, sending a handful of seamen sliding into the hold. But most of the projectiles sailed over the Griffin and disappeared into the water.
Samuel waited for the barque’s guns to respond in kind. Then he noticed that all the gunners were assembled with the attack force, swords and muskets at the ready. Captain Blade had no intention of sinking this galleon, not until her treasure was safely aboard his own vessel.
The Griffin came alongside the Spaniard, and the grappling hooks were airborne. It seemed only a heartbeat later that scores of heavily armed privateers were scrambling up the ropes to the higher decks of the galleon. Steel-helmeted Spanish troops awaited them there. Muskets fired, and sailors with whom Samuel had broken bread for many months dropped lifeless into the sea.
The second wave of privateers caught the defenders reloading. The Englishmen streamed onto the deck. Swords clashed. Men fell.
This was a fight to the death.
* * *
It was well known in the New World that a Spanish galleon was an easy target for corsairs and pirates. The ships were overloaded and slow. The sailors were not trained to fight, and the soldiers were underpaid, underfed, and eager to surrender.
No one had shared this information with the gallant crew of a ship called Nuestra Señora de la Luz. The defenders battled like lions, sailors alongside soldiers, and even passengers. The treasure in their hold was the property of His Most Catholic Majesty King Carlos II, and no English pirate was going to get it.
Samuel had not raised his sword in Portobelo, but he fought today on the deck of this galleon. He did so to preserve his own life. Not a moment went by without razor-sharp steel slicing his way, or a musket ball whizzing past his ear. To the best of his knowledge, he harmed no one. He used his weapon only to ward off the strokes against him.
But that did not keep the blood off him. It was everywhere, spurting and spraying like water. The deck ran with gore, a flood that spilled over the gunwales until the surrounding seas were filled with sharks, driven to frenzy by the taste and smell of a fresh kill.
At the center of the carnage fought Captain James Blade, a broadsword in one hand and his bone-handled whip in the other. This was a man, Samuel knew, who gloried in batt
le, even enjoyed it. Yet the expression on his face as he flailed about himself was one of naked fear. The possibility of losing this encounter had occurred to him. It was not a thought that had ever crossed his arrogant mind before.
But the privateers had not traversed half a world only to fall short when their prize lay right under the deck planks beneath their feet. When the tide turned in favor of the English, it was through sheer force of stubborn will.
Seven and eighty privateers had gone into battle just an hour before. Fewer than half that number looked on as the Spanish commander yielded his weapon to Captain Blade, representing the surrender of Nuestra Señora de la Luz.
Blade accepted the sword in a sullen rage. He raised his whip and began to lash the commander, cursing him for putting up such resistance.
A young Spaniard, the first officer, threw himself at Blade, made furious by this dishonorable conduct. He wrested the whip from the corsair’s hand and flung it contemptuously overboard.
Samuel never knew what gave him the courage to step forward and try to calm his captain down. “You’ve won, sir. The treasure is yours. You can buy a thousand whips with gems even bigger than that one.”
The words served to placate the captain. But that did not stop him from ordering that every man, woman, and child aboard the galleon be thrown to the sharks.
English stood in the bow of the Antilles Adventurer, appraising the gathering overcast.
Bad weather was coming. That wouldn’t affect the divers. At seven hundred feet, the topside conditions might as well have been happening in Paris. But it would certainly be a factor for this sixty-year-old ship. Flat and bargelike, the Adventurer wallowed like a garbage scow even in glassy calm. Who knew how she would perform in a storm?
But the boat had two things going for her: She could handle a diving bell and she wasn’t on Antilles Oil’s work schedule. For an “unofficial” job like this one, English needed a craft that wouldn’t be missed.
The six-foot-five figure shuddered slightly in the headwind. Nervousness was not a familiar feeling for Menasce Gérard. He was used to a masterful confidence in his ability to deal with any situation. But treasure hunting did not sit well with him. Nor did the idea of involving his Antilles colleagues in this scheme that could cost them their jobs. But mostly, taking two inexperienced teenagers to seven hundred feet seemed like madness. And yet, this was the only way. So strange, this life!