Isle of Fire (13 page)

“Look,” said Ross, “I know I've been hard on you and the crew. I know we're all worn down to the edge. But think of Abigail. Think of Midge and Cromwell. Their blood—and that of hundreds of others—is on Thorne's hands. If there's a chance he's still out there, we've got to find him.”

Stede nodded, but said nothing.

“Just sail us to Dominica,” Ross implored. “Then I'll give us all a nice long break.”

Stede's dark brow lowered, and he turned to face his captain. “Not good enough,” he said. “I'll sail us to Roseau, but then ya b' needin' to give up this mad chase once and for all. No more talking about Thorne, no more goin' to his old haunts—ya hear? No more of it. Oh, and we b' take that nice long break too. Antigua's nice this time of year. Them's my terms, Declan.”

“I'll take them,” Ross said, and the two shook on it. “But, Stede . . . if we do get word of Thorne . . . if we do find him . . .”

Stede sputtered out a laugh. “Then, mon, I b' sailing with ya through a hurricane to catch him . . . if that b' what it takes.”

The wind hadn't stayed quite as strong, so the
Robert Bruce
was still several hours from Dominica as the sun began to set. “A sail!” called Kalik from the crow's-nest. “There be a sail southeast!” Kalik had many talents, but his sharp vision earned him the job of lookout. “Captain?” Mr. Hack called from the deck.

Ross lowered his spyglass. “A galleon,” he said. “It looks French. Let's go get him.”

“Aye, sir!” Hack flexed his forearms and cracked his knuckles loud enough for Ross to hear it up on the quarterdeck. Then Hack was gone, barking orders for more sail and for men to get to the cannons.

Red Eye was running for the hatch when Ross called down, “Red Eye, tell Jacques I need him up here.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Red Eye.

“And you'll handle the cannon decks, won't you?”

Red Eye grinned and disappeared below deck. If it came to a fight, Ross hoped that Red Eye wouldn't get too carried away. The sixty-gun
Robert Bruce
was a potent weapon in the hands of a skilled artillery man. Red Eye was as skilled as they came—lethal more often than not—and Ross wanted to question the crew of the ship they were chasing, not watch them burn and sink below the surface. That was why, most times, Ross preferred Jacques St. Pierre to oversee the cannons. Of course, allowing Jacques to work with explosives was another kind of risk.

The
Bruce
's sails filled, and the ship quickly ate up the distance between it and the galleon. “Him b' running,” said Stede. “Him b' one foolish mon.”

“Where is Saint Pierre?” Ross asked.

“Here!” A curly head of dark hair appeared at the ladder. St. Pierre, wearing a gentleman's frock coat and a tricorn hat, clambered the rest of the way up. He landed atop the quarterdeck and gave a slight bow. “Did you call, mon capitaine?”

“Quite awhile ago, as I recall,” said Ross. “What took you so long?”

“I am sorry, but I had to convince Red Eye not to load thirty cannons.”

“Thirty?” Ross exclaimed. “We're not storming Paris!”

“Of course, I know this,” replied Jacques. “But Red Eye, he is—how you say—ridiculous! He wants to blow the ship out of the water. But I used my extraodinary negotiating skills and changed his mind.”

“And what did you decide?”

“Twenty cannons.”

Ross shook his head. The galleon continued to try to run, but it was heavy, loaded down with some merchandise, perhaps gold. Another time and Declan Ross would have been licking his lips at the prospect of looting this fat vessel. But not this time. “Raise the standard!” Ross yelled.

The wolf and claymore rose high up on the mast. Every time Ross saw it, pride swelled within. Stede, caught in the lust of the chase, grinned like a schoolboy. But the chase would not last much longer. No sooner had the
Bruce
's flag gone up than the galleon lowered its sails and slowed to a crawl. Soon it had stopped altogether.

Stede brought the
Bruce
up alongside. “Red Eye!” Ross called. “Have the cannons ready if they try anything!”

“Aye, Captain!”

Ross went to the rail on the quarterdeck. He saw the name of the vessel. “
Le Vichy
,” he said to himself. He turned to St. Pierre. “That sounds—”

“Oui, it is French.”

“Hmmm,” Ross muttered. “If they do not understand, I may need you to translate.”

Then, using the most commanding voice he could muster, Ross called to the men on the other ship. “Captain and crew of the
Vichy
, you will turn your cannons and prepare to be boarded!” Ross watched with satisfaction as men on the other deck began to scurry about like ants.

Jules and Mr. Hack hauled the gangplanks over and bridged the gap between the two vessels. Declan left the ship in Stede's capable hands and led a boarding party including Jules, Jacques St. Pierre, and Hack. When Ross stepped onto the deck, he stopped short. In all his years as a pirate, he'd never seen anything quite like what he faced now.

The whole crew of the galleon was assembled on deck in four very neat rows. The first two rows of sailors were all kneeling with their arms behind them as if tied. Two rows of men stood behind those kneeling. Their hands were not bound, but each man held some kind of merchandise or treasure: gold and silver coins, candlestick holders, silverware, spices, jewelry—even sacks of grain or sugar. Ross gawked at them and strode onto the deck, and any man he approached instantly shouted, “Je me rends, Je me rends!”

Ross looked at his explosives expert. “Jacques?”

“They are surrendering,” Jacques replied.

A commotion broke out behind the back row. Two of the French sailors grappled fiercely and rolled on the deck. They shouted at each other and growled like dogs. Ross again looked to Jacques. “What is that all about?” Ross asked.

“They are fighting,” St. Pierre said tersely.

“Thank you for that obvious information,” Ross scowled. “I can see that much. What are they fighting about?”

“Sacre bleu!” Jacques spat and then muttered, “It seems they are fighting over who gets to surrender first.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” said Ross. “Jacques, tell them who I am. Convince them we have peaceful intentions. Tell them we just want information!”

Before Jacques could say a word, a tall man appeared from behind the rest. He had long greasy hair and a colorful variety of tattoos on his upper arms and chest. He strode over to the men still punching and struggling and kicked each one sharply in the rear end. Then, with his hands on his hips, he yelled at the two combatants. They instantly stopped fighting, stood, and slunk away to the back row.

Jacques took the opportunity to speak up. He spoke rapidly, telling all what Ross had commanded. Some of the sailors of the
Vichy
sighed and cracked relieved smiles. Others squinted and looked confused. The tattooed man approached Captain Ross and said something. Then, startling everyone, he drew his cutlass.

But before Hack could get to Ross's defense, the tattooed sailor bowed and placed his sword at Ross's feet. Jacques threw up his hands and said, “He is the captain. He says if anyone has the right to surrender first, it is he.”

The captain of the
Vichy
said something rapidly, and his facial expression turned very serious, almost defiant. Ross looked again at St. Pierre. Jacques rolled his eyes and explained, “The captain says you can have anything you want from the ship, but you will have to kill him if you want the
Vichy
's chef and their
boudain noir
.”

“Boudain noir?”

St. Pierre licked his lips. “Boudain noir is a sausage made with boiled and congealed blood.”

Ross made a horrid face. “Tell the captain he can keep his ship's cargo—especially the boudain noir. And please get him to understand we mean them no harm.”

Through Jacques's translation, Ross at last convinced the sailors of the
Vichy
that he was not a pirate bent on plunder, death, and destruction. Ross handed the cutlass back to the
Vichy
's captain whose name, he learned, was Lâchance. Captain Lâchance, more than a little embarrassed over the misunderstanding, explained that they had fled Martinique with a huge cargo of sugar and coffee.

“These have been very dangerous waters,” Lâchance said as St. Pierre translated. “So many ships, many of them sailed by friends of mine, have never returned. Pirates have even become brazen enough to attack the settlements and plantations.”

Ross had to ask, “Do you know which pirates? Was it Bartholomew Thorne?”

Captain Lâchance's eyes grew to the size of ostrich eggs. “Thorne?!” he exclaimed. “That devil is not still alive, is he?”

Ross sighed and shook his head. “Who then? What pirates still sail around Martinique?”

Lâchance explained, “There are many, most of them upstarts. They do not concern us, for we have adequate gunnery for such. But”— and here the French captain paused with such gravity that each man felt a chill—“we believe the Ghost has come to Martinique.”

“The Ghost?” echoed St. Pierre. “Edmund Bellamy?”

Ross immediately understood the preemptive surrender of the
Vichy
. Edmund Bellamy was as brutal a killer as any pirate to ever sail. It was said that Bellamy liked to wound his prisoners and toss them into shark-infested waters just for sport. He would attack ships and settlements on land with equal ferocity and with no mercy . . . always leaving just one survivor behind to tell the tale. And worse, Bellamy was a brilliant sailor and tactician. He had a sixth sense for the sea and always found a way to maneuver his gray ship into superior—and often lethal—position. His attacks seemingly came from nowhere. And when his bloodthirsty missions were completed, he somehow always managed to slip away before he could be caught.

Ross asked, “How sure are you that Bellamy is in Martinique?”

Captain Lâchance's brows arched like a roof over his sad, dark gaze. “We are certain. He has already wiped out Dufour and d'Arlet on the southwestern coast. We have no doubt that Le Diamant is next. So . . . so we fled the island.”

“You were right to flee Edmund Bellamy,” Ross said, grasping the Frenchman's shoulder. “He is a wicked man.”

“Mon capitaine,” said Jacques, “Bellamy must be stopped.” St. Pierre paused and studied his captain. “We are going after this man, aren't we?”

Ross had been staring to the south. He was so close to the island of Dominica and, perhaps, a trail leading to Thorne. But that would have to wait. “Of course, we're going after him,” Ross said. But he thought,
The only problem is how does one capture a ghost?

11
EDMUND BELLAMY

T
his b' peculiar fog,” whispered Stede.

“Agreed,” said Ross. “It's not the weather for such a patch as this.”

The fogbank drifted like a gray shroud across the shallow waters approaching Martinique. It quickly enveloped the
Bruce
in its spectral arms, and all at once the crew knew that something was terribly wrong.

“This isn't fog,” hissed Red Eye, sniffing the air. “It's smoke.”

As the
Bruce
emerged from the vapors, the crew saw what they had feared: they were too late. The coastal French town of Le Diamant, once a bustling and prosperous port for trading smoked meats, sugar cane, and coffee, was nothing but a smoldering husk.

“Stede, take us in close,” Ross said solemnly. “We'll take the cutters from there and search for—”

They all heard it. “Get down!” Jules yelled just as a cannonball tore through the main topsail, snapped a web of rigging near the foremast, and narrowly missed the bowsprit before it plunged into the dark water in front of the ship. The second and third shots came within heartbeats of the first. One blasted the quarterdeck railing, showering Ross and Stede with splintered wood. But the other was the most devastating blow. It careened off of the base of the mizzenmast and slammed a deck hand named Perkins. Others on deck ran to the fallen man's aid, but there was nothing they could do.