Isle of Fire (4 page)

“An arm?” Nubby muttered. “You got me an arm?”

Jacques smiled proudly. “It took some shrewd bargaining with a master carver in Barbados, and we had to part with a few jewels, but it is the finest craftsmanship, no?”

Nubby picked up the wooden arm and watched its forearm section sway on its hinge.

“Stede was in on it too,” Jacques said.

Stede stepped into the circle. “Try it on, mon,” he said.

Nubby stood, holding the wooden arm by its wrist. “Oh, I'll try it out, all right,” he said. “I'll try it out on your blitherin' skulls!” Suddenly, Nubby swung the arm at Jacques, whacking him sharply on the shoulder. “What d' ya think I am, a blasted puppet? I'm plenty good with one arm, thank you!”

Then he whirled around toward Stede. The
Bruce
's quartermaster was too quick, however, and he sped off across the deck. The crowd cheered every time Nubby connected with either Jacques or Stede. They raced around the deck until a clear female voice broke into song. They all turned, the crew of the
Bruce
especially stunned, to hear this beautiful voice coming from Anne.

Heave ho, to the sea we go,
Where ships sail high and the soft winds blow.
Where pirate hearts beat proud and true,
We sing this birthday wish to you.
May the sweet trade winds always fill your sails,
And fat fish leap off the starboard rails.
May you spin the wheel 'til you grow old,
And find your pockets lined with jewels and gold.
May your black flag fly true and high,
And you never find your barrels dry.
Happy Birthday, Nubs!

The crowd cheered and then pleaded for Anne to sing again . . . which, of course, she did. And a couple of Cutlass Jack's men brought out fiddles and added a smart rhythm to Anne's melody. Many of the crew began to dance. Even Nubby, still clutching his wooden arm, danced a little jig.

Late that evening almost asleep at his desk, Declan Ross was startled by a sudden knock on his cabin door. “Come!” he said.

The door opened, and Cutlass Jack Bonnet entered. He closed the door with an air of secrecy and turned to Ross.

“You grow tired of singing and dancing up on deck?” Ross asked.

“Nay, Declan, I never tire of revelry. It's been a long time since my lads were this happy. It was a good thought to harbor here together and make merry. I missed seein' ye up there, though.”

Ross gestured to his sea charts. “These charts have to be my dance partner tonight,” Ross explained. “How's my Anne—none of your men giving her a hard time, are they? You know, she's signed the articles. She's family—and crew—now.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Jack. “Yer Anne is as spirited as they come. My quartermaster has taken a likin' t' her, ye know.”

“I think her heart's spoken for,” said Ross. “Though she'd keelhaul me for even speaking the suggestion.”

“Who is he?”

“Ah, he goes by the name Cat,” Ross replied. “A good lad. Captain material. He had a pressing errand at the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel on Saba, or he'd be here with us now.”

“An errand with the monks? Who can tell what they'll do t' him.” They both laughed.

“You know, you really have been like family to us,” Ross said. “Anne still calls you Uncle Jack . . . she doesn't have any real uncles, real family, except me. It'd be good to have you around more.”

Jack smiled proudly, but just for a moment. Then it became uncomfortably quiet. Ross looked on his guest, but Cutlass Jack stared at the floor.

“What is it, Jack?”

“Now it comes t' this,” he muttered, shifting in place. “Seventeen years, Declan . . . that's how long I've been a' piratin'. I'd have never started if the Brits hadn't taught me t' sail, taught me t' fight at sea . . . taught me t' plunder the spoils of a defeated foe. And since the day they tossed me aside like so much flotsam, I've been puttin' my seafarin' skills t' good use. Declan, it's all I know. It's all I'm good at.”

“You can still use those skills,” Declan offered. “I'm counting on it! You're just using them for a different cause.”

“But the British?” Cutlass Jack scratched under his bandana. “They cut us off once. They'll do it again.”

“It's not just the British footing the bill, Jack,” Ross paused, wondering how much he should say.

“Doesn't matter. The deal won't last, and we'll be left just like before.” Jack turned to leave, but waited a moment. “Do ye truly think anyone believes that someone like me, who's seen what I seen and done what I done, could ever really change?”

Declan stood up. “I do.”

His face masked by regret, Cutlass Jack Bonnet let out an exasperated sigh, shook his head, and left Ross's quarters.

Early the next morning, Declan Ross rolled out of his hammock and went to his desk. There he found the small brown satchel of jewels he'd given Cutlass Jack the night before. He hefted it in his hand. It felt as heavy as it had when he'd handed it to Jack.

“Him b' long gone,” said Stede from the open door.

“I had a feeling,” said Ross.

Stede looked at the pouch of jewels. “How many did that rascal keep?”

“Near as I can tell . . . he didn't keep any.”

Stede thought about that a moment. “Him b' one outrageous mon.”

“He's a good man . . . at heart,” said Ross. “But I don't look forward to the next time we meet.”

“This b' what we signed up for, mon. Some of them will not b' seeing things our way, ya know.”

“Still . . . I wish he—ah, never mind.”

“Where to now?”

“Saba,” said Ross. “Let's go get Cat.”

3
THE CITADEL

F
ather Brun rushed in with a bundle under his arm. He started to speak, but then saw the shattered mirror and Cat's bloody hand. He quickly placed the bundle on the table near the window and helped Cat to his feet. Father Brun led Cat to sit on the corner of the cot, removed a clean piece of linen from a drawer, and pressed it gently into Cat's palm. The monk said nothing but sat beside Cat and waited.

Cat looked away. But at last, in a quiet, gravelly voice, Cat said, “I am just like
him
.”

Father Brun placed a reassuring hand on Cat's shoulder. “If by that you mean you are like your father,” said the monk, “then you are grievously mistaken.”

“Have you ever seen him?” Cat exclaimed.

Father Brun nodded. “Yes, but it was a long time ago.”

“Then you know,” said Cat bitterly. “My eyes, my jaw, everything—it's just the same. Every time I see myself . . . I see him.”

Father Brun tilted his head thoughtfully. “I see someone quite different. Your eyes, your mouth—none of those things make who you are. And I am quite certain that you are nothing like Bartholomew Thorne.”

“You saw what I did!” Cat's face twisted with anguish. “You saw that rage. I would have killed Dmitri . . . if you hadn't stepped in.”

“I doubt that,” said Father Brun. “I've seen men stronger than you break a staff over Dmitri's head without doing him much harm.”

Cat laughed in spite of himself but quickly looked away. “But, Father Brun,” he said, “I've had memories come back. I've seen him go from perfect calm to a murderous rage in an instant—just like me.”

“He's done unspeakable horrors,” said Father Brun. “But you would never go that far.”

“How do you know?” pleaded Cat. “There's still so much of my past missing. So much I don't remember. What if I really am just like him?”

Father Brun stood, and his voice had an edge to it when he spoke again. “Cat, do you really believe that this has already been decided for you?”

Cat looked at him and blinked. “I . . . I don't—”

“The way you are talking,” Father Brun interrupted, “leads me to believe you think that who you are is a fixed thing, a doom that cannot be avoided.”

Cat's mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing.

“See to it that you banish that thought from your mind,” Father Brun continued, his voice sharpening as he spoke. “For it is a lie from the pit of hell! Now, I am very sorry for what you've been through, and you no doubt will bear scars from those unfortunate days in your mind as well as the scars on your back. But you, Cat, YOU are responsible for what you do with the time that is to come. Do you understand? There is nothing in your past that guarantees who you will become. Have you forgotten the lives you saved on the Isle of Swords? Have you forgotten the miraculous path that led you here? If you must consider the past, then think on those things. I for one am convinced that the Almighty has great plans for you.”

Father Brun walked to the chamber door. “You know . . . the Holy Scriptures say, ‘Old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new!' Your past may indeed have a strong hold on your life, Cat, but the Almighty is stronger still. When dark thoughts come again, think on that instead.” Father Brun paused to let his words sink in and then said, “I will return soon. It is time for you to learn why I have brought you to the Citadel.”

Cat didn't know when Father Brun would be back, but he needed to get out of his chamber, breathe the fresh sea air, and clear his mind. He found himself wandering over the lush green hills outside of the Citadel. The entire island of Saba in the Caribbean was a long-dormant volcano, now green with trees and foliage and surrounded by smaller stony mounds and wavelike terrain. But through years of toil, the monks had flattened out several plateaus and converted them for their purposes. Cat followed a wide and winding path. Men in simple brown robes moved to and fro like worker bees in a hive. Some tended to mango or other fruit-bearing trees. Others tirelessly hoed long rows in the soil. But all who saw Cat stopped their work, smiled, and nodded slightly as he walked by.

Even after a week, it was still unnerving. The first day on Saba, Cat had asked Father Brun, “Why do they keep doing that?”

Father Brun had laughed quietly. “Word of your deeds has spread far and wide, even reaching little Saba. The monks show their gratitude to the one who delivered the Nails of Christ. All five hundred members of the Brethren who dwell here—and the hundreds more abroad—have been praying for you every day since your return.”