Isle of Fire (26 page)

Father Brun and the others froze in their various places within the vertical tube. The anguished wail seemed to get farther away until they no longer heard it at all. “The Merchant,” whispered Father Brun. “There can be no doubt that he is here.”

“If that scream was his,” said Brother Dmitri, “then he is none too pleased with our arrival.” Cat didn't think the horrible wail came from the Merchant, but he felt certain that somehow the Merchant knew they were coming.

Slowly, they continued down the vertical passage. Cat had been counting the rungs. There were fifty-seven so far. Each one was barely enough metal to rest a foot on. And they were very slippery too. In fact, Cat noted, the walls of the tunnel were cool and smooth as if eroded by water over many long years.

Every ten feet or so, a small oil lantern burned in a pocket of stone. This provided intermittent pale light. Near one of the lanterns, Cat found odd markings and indentations—small spirals and segmented lines, as if small sea creatures had once been imbedded within this rock but had perished and rotted away leaving nothing but these marks. Cat had no desire to remain in these blasted tunnels and certainly no desire to perish. The sooner they finished this mission the better. A dozen more rungs and Cat began to feel uncomfortable pressure in his ears. They were deep beneath the surface, Cat felt sure. He held the rung in front of him with one hand, held his nose with his other, and gently blew to clear his ears of the pressure—a little trick he'd learned from the conch divers when the
Bruce
made port on Aruba. Then he continued down.

Father Brun dropped down out of the tunnel and found himself in a squat chamber lit by two lanterns recessed into the wall like the ones in the tunnel. Cat and the others arrived in turn, and each drew weapons upon landing. Cat had the cutlass Red Eye had given him long ago. Anne had a sword also, as well as a long dagger in her right boot. Father Brun and the others carried the black fighting rods that were the customary weapon of the Brethren warriors. With those simple weapons, they could disarm and disable most foes.

Anne looked left and right. Passages opened on either side. “Where did the scream come from?” she asked.

“Impossible to tell,” said Father Brun. “But this passage”—he pointed to the right—“seems to go down. Cat?”

Cat nodded. Father Brun treated him with respect. As captain of the
Constantine
, Cat expected to command the ship, but feared that Father Brun would demand authority elsewhere.
No
, Cat realized,
he doesn't need to demand
. Men knew his wisdom. Men knew his faith. Men knew his strength. And yet he often deferred to others. Cat wondered at that. “Down we go,” Cat said.

“Good,” said the Merchant. He sat in an almost perfectly round room from which only one passage led. But there were dozens of small openings all over the chamber. Some were just big enough for a man's fist to fit through. Others were wide enough for a person's head. But all of these openings went deep into the rock, disappearing into shadow. The Merchant knew where each one of them led, and he listened intently. “They come closer and closer to my special den. But I am a patient spider . . . and cunning. I will divide them first and then devour.”

He listened a moment more and finally heard voices from the leftmost hole in the ceiling. Then he sprang. The Merchant's right hand shot out of his cloak and grasped a dark iron lever, one of many that protruded from slots in the chamber floor. He pulled back on the lever and heard a deep metallic clang followed by the clicking of wheels turning.

19
HACK AND SLASH

B
ellefontaine was an extremely busy port on the northwestern coast of Martinique. But all the sailing traffic in and out of the harbor gave the
Banshee
and the
Robert Bruce
a very wide berth. With Bellamy's attacks, Martinique had become more than a little sensitive to pirates—even those with a more noble reputation.

Jacques St. Pierre directed Stede away from the trade commerce and around a horn of land to the promised shipyard of Slash Montant. There were already a dozen ships in various states of repair anchored at the many docks.
This Slash is a busy man
, Ross thought.

No sooner had Jack and Ross moored the ships at the only open quay than a man came charging up the pier. He stomped right up to the bow of the
Bruce
and stood with his hands on his hips. He wore green breeches that stopped at the knee, a long sword on one hip, and a variety of tools on the other. He tapped his foot on the dock and scratched at his dark goatee. When no one hailed him from the ship, he began to yell. “Who are you?” he demanded. His voice was high, commanding, and distinctively English. “And who gave you permission to take up space in my shipyard?”

“Slash, you simpleminded Englishman,” St. Pierre yelled back. “Do you mean to tell me you do not know a fortune when you see one?”

The man on the pier squinted in the sun. “Jacques?” His smallish eyes opened wide. “Jacques Saint Pierre . . . you doltish French buffoon, you're still alive?”

Before Ross could stop him, Jacques drew his sword, grabbed a rope, and swung down to the pier.
Merciful heavens
, thought Ross.
St. Pierre's going to kill the man before he can fix our boat.

Slash drew his sword as St. Pierre approached. The two exchanged a flurry of blows, but clearly Slash was the better swordsman. His rapier moved in a blur, and he quickly gained an advantage on Jacques. Red Eye joined Ross at the rail and lowered a long-barreled musket. He used his good eye and sighted it on St. Pierre's enemy.

“No,” said Ross, putting a light hand on the musket. “Let them fight . . . for now.”

Red Eye reluctantly lowered the rifle.

St. Pierre was sweating now. He did all he could to parry and block the advancing Slash, but the Englishman was too fast. He lunged, and St. Pierre's sword suddenly flew into the air. Slash caught it. Red Eye took aim.

Then Slash threw down both swords and grasped St. Pierre in a Herculean bear hug. “Ah, Jacques,” he said. “So good to see you again!”

“Likewise, mon ami!” said St. Pierre. “You haven't lost your touch with the rapier, I see.”

“Never,” he replied. Then his demeanor became serious. “Now, what were you saying about a fortune to be had?”

Ross and the senior crew of the
Bruce
traveled down the gangplank even as Cutlass Jack and his men did so from the
Banshee
. “Slash Montant,” Jacques said, “allow me to introduce Captain Declan Ross.”

As he shook hands with Ross, Slash said, “The Sea Wolf, eh? Your pirate reputation precedes you.”

“I've left piracy behind me,” said Ross. “But I've kept the name.”

“As have I,” said Cutlass Jack, holding out his own hand, which Slash shook in turn. “I am Cutlass Jack Bonnet.”

“Cutlass Jack and Declan Ross . . . no longer pirates?” Slash smiled. “If only we could persuade Edmund Bellamy to do so, Martinique would be a much happier island.”

“Then let Martinique rejoice!” said Jacques St. Pierre. “For Bellamy is dead.”

“Dead?” echoed Slash. “Really?”

“Quite.” St. Pierre laughed. “Thanks to these two ships and their crews. But during the battle that claimed Bellamy's life, each of these ships sustained considerable damage.”

“Especially this one,” Slash said, pointing at the
Bruce
. “Unless I am sorely mistaken, you are missing a mast.”

“Yes,” said Ross. “Jacques told us you had the supplies to repair our ships.”

“Oh, I have what you need,” said Slash. “And I can fix your ships.”

“But we have urgent need of speed,” said Ross. “We need to sail for England.”

“They do not call me Slash for nothing,” he replied. “But can you afford me?”

Ross started to speak, but Jacques stepped in front. “Pardonnez, mon capitaine . . . may I address this?”

Ross smiled and nodded. Jacques was not only the chief gunner, but he was also the chief negotiator.

St. Pierre took Slash Montant by the shoulder and said, “Slash, my friend . . . I see by your bustling docks, you are very busy, no?”

“All the business I can handle,” Slash replied proudly.

“Oui, très bien,” Jacques paused. “But, ah, this business is all local, ah? They pay you in what, chickens? Sugar cane?”

Slash frowned. “Look, mate, what are you getting at?”

“Nothing.” Jacques held up his hand, pleading innocence. “I am sure you need these things, the
common
necessities of life. But, ah, my friends Ross and Cutlass Jack, they have spent years plundering the far reaches of the world. Do you not think they might have something to offer you . . . something quite a bit better than chickens?” St. Pierre watched Slash's expression change. He was hooked, and Jacques knew it.

“What sort of somethings might you gentlemen have to barter?” Slash asked. “Gold? Jewels?”

“Yes to both,” said Ross. “How fast could you repair our ships if we were to part with some of these items?” Then, taking a page out of St. Pierre's book, he added, “Some of these
rare
items.”

“Very fast indeed,” said Slash. “A blink, and I will be done. But let us not discuss the fee any longer. I see that you are good to cover whatever I charge. Let me survey the damages, and then we can begin work.”

After Slash assessed the damages to both ships, he assembled a crew of more than a hundred laborers—most pulled from work on other ships—and they went right to work on Jack's
Banshee
and the
Robert Bruce
. For three days, Slash and his men worked seamlessly with the crews of the two ships. But on the fourth day, things became suddenly difficult.

On the newly repaired quarterdeck, Captain Ross sipped at a mug while talking to Stede about potential routes to England and courses of action once there. “But Stede,” Declan continued, “he has to hear us out. It's his country that's in danger.”