Isle of Fire (9 page)

King George said something to Vogler. The translator said, “His Majesty wishes to know why you have come without Commodore Blake.”

“Your Majesty,” began Sir Nigel, “it is about Commodore Brandon Blake that I have come. I am sad to admit that I traveled here alone from New Providence because I question Commodore Blake's judgment.” He waited for Vogler to translate before continuing.

“Certainly, we all commend Commodore Blake for his previous accomplishments—capturing the elusive Bartholomew Thorne—chief among them. But that obsessive chase has taken its toll. I believe that Commodore Blake has misrepresented the current threat of piracy in the Atlantic and the Spanish Main. And . . . his misjudgment is costing England a lot of money.” Sir Nigel waited for the king's reaction. When King George raised an eyebrow, Sir Nigel smiled.

“As you know,” Sir Nigel went on, “England is now financing Commodore Blake's pirate-hunting fleet—their task: seek out the scoundrels of the sea and convert them into privateers, making the seas safe for travel and trade—a noble idea. Noble, but . . . unnecessary. When we defeated Bartholomew Thorne and his pirate fleet and recovered that wonderful treasure, we eliminated most of the pirates who might pose any threat. The few pirates left out there—the very ones Commodore Blake has been enlisting in his Wolf fleet—are mostly harmless rogues and drunkards. England is pouring its treasuries into the pockets of worthless men to squander on rum and other worldly pleasures.”

When the translator finished, King George raised both eyebrows and spoke rapidly in German to Vogler. Then he looked to Sir Nigel. “The king wonders about Bartholomew Thorne,” said the translator. “Commodore Blake's last correspondence indicated that it is possible Thorne is still alive.”

“Your Majesty,” said Sir Nigel to the interpreter, “I am certain Bartholomew Thorne is dead. No one could have survived the wave that inundated New Providence. I saw the carnage in those cells. Thorne was dismembered by the current and washed out to sea with the others.” Sir Nigel waited to let that image sink in. “Bartholomew Thorne and the pirates that served him represented the greatest threat to your kingdom, but now that threat has passed. There is no longer cause to waste a river of treasure on those reprobates masquerading as pirate hunters.”

King George sat up in his throne so abruptly that it started a wave of silk and satin rippling from his shoulders all the way to his knobby knees. He pounded a hammy fist on the armrest and said something urgent to Vogler.

“His Majesty is dismayed and demands to know what you suggest.”

Sir Nigel smiled subtly. “Bring Commodore Blake and the other ranking officers back to England. Dissolve the Wolf fleet. Turn off the wasteful flow of riches and use the assets in whatever way suits you best, my King.”

King George grinned. He spoke again to Vogler, who translated, “What about the treasure provided by the monks? They delivered those vaults of gold and jewels in good faith that we would pay the privateers.”

Sir Nigel had anticipated that question. “Your Majesty, not one gold coin, not even a single gleaming stone would have returned from the Isle of Swords—if it were not for the expertise of the British Royal Navy. Our forces waylaid Bartholomew Thorne and reduced his fleet to flotsam. If that treasure belongs to anyone, it belongs to England . . . to you, my King.”

The king chuckled at that, and his nostrils flared. Then Sir Nigel added, “Besides, I doubt very much if the monks presented us with all their treasure. Not even the monks would have so much . . . faith.”

King George scratched the tip of his nose. “And what of the disgruntled privateers? They will certainly turn back to piracy,” Vogler said for the king.

“Nothing our royal navy cannot handle. Again, we're not talking about intelligent, organized villains like Bartholomew Thorne or his lieutenant, Thierry Chevillard. The few pirates who have become the so-called pirate hunters are a bungling crew of louts who can barely make it out of port, much less mount a formidable resistance.”

His royal scepter now firmly in his right hand, King George stood and spoke in a heavy German accent, “You speak wisdom. England has no need of this pirate-hunting fleet. And we certainly have no need to dump treasures into the ocean. I will do as you suggest. I will dissolve this Wolf fleet . . . immediately.” He looked to Vogler, who nodded as if to say, “Yes, Your Majesty, you spoke well.”

“Thank you, my King,” said Sir Nigel with a polite bow. He turned to leave and walked down the red carpet toward the doors. He wondered if the king would suspect—suddenly, Vogler spoke up.

“Ah, Sir Nigel? A moment. The king wonders why you would offer such news and give such advice. You sailed with Commodore Blake, and your actions do not seem to benefit you in the least.”

Sir Nigel put on a grim face, turned, and spoke solemnly. “I seek only to serve the best interests of England. My reward must only be to see my king and my country prosper.” He paused. “But, should Commodore Blake be unreasonable toward Your Majesty, should he contend with you and continue to show a lack of sound judgment, I would consider it an honor if you would see fit to grant me command of the
Oxford
.”

Vogler translated immediately. The king smiled broadly and nodded to Sir Nigel.

Sir Nigel nodded back. As he turned to leave, he thought,
Ah,
my pig-king, we understand each other at last.

7
THE JUDGMENTS OF COMMODORE BLAKE

L
ady Dolphin Blake slowly lowered an old, leather-bound book and frowned at her husband. “I still don't understand why the first mention of me in my father's journals is when I was already two years of age.”

“I'm quite sure I don't know, Dolphin” Commodore Brandon Blake replied. He frowned back at his wife over a steaming cup of tea. Sitting across from her on a blue and white striped couch in the parlor of their New Providence home, he added, “Maybe he didn't take to journaling about family right off.”

“Brand, darling, don't be absurd,” she replied, a glint in her green eyes. “He mentions mother quite frequently. Mother . . . and ships—but that's all there is for years. And then, there I am, already two. I tell you, some of my father's journals are missing.”

Blake, who had recently returned to New Providence after an eight-hundred-mile hunt ending in the capture of the Spanish pirate Inigo de Avila, had been hoping to relax with his wife. But ever since the surprise delivery of her father's journals, Dolphin had been as anxious as Brand had ever seen her. “You could be right, of course,” he said. “But there are several large gaps between entries. More than a year in some cases. Perhaps he was just too busy to write.”

“Too busy to write about his only child?” Dolphin brushed a lock of dark red hair out of her eyes and looked at Brand. “I can't imagine.” Brand sighed. He'd developed his own suspicions, but, for Dolphin's protection, he was hesitant to reveal them—especially since there was no way to know for sure. “Don't let it trouble you so, my dear,” he said, sipping his tea and avoiding her stare. “But rather think of this as a blessing. If old Mrs. Kravits hadn't realized what those journals were, she might have left them to rot or thrown them out. Now you have a treasure in your hands. Let it—”

“I want to go back to England,” Dolphin said suddenly.

“What?”

“I want to visit Mrs. Kravits. I want to search my old home in London. My father may have other documents—maybe even more journals hidden away.”

“Darling,” Brand said. “You know my commission. I have a fleet to command and a disorganized band of pirate hunters to coordinate. I couldn't possibly leave now.”

“Then let me go without you,” she pleaded. “There are ships coming and going nearly every day. Please, I need to do this.”

There came a sharp rap at the door. Brand was thankful for the interruption. He patted Dolphin's hand and then left the parlor. Dolphin thought it was dreadfully quiet. She wondered what her husband would decide. Angry voices emanated from the main hall. A shout, and then a door slammed.

Brand returned. His cheeks were flushed, his brow was knotted, and his eyes looked small. In his right hand he held a large, rolled parchment. “It seems you shall have your wish,” he said rapidly, his words clipped. “His Majesty, King George, has commanded that I bring the
Oxford
back home . . . immediately.”

Nathaniel Hopper waited for nightfall to clamber down from his roost in the bell tower on the British fort at New Providence. His face and skin were grimy, his clothes soiled and dark. He was a shadow creeping along the roof of the British fort. For many months, none of the soldiers had noted Hopper's movements in the alleys, along the walls, or on the docks. One of the prisoners had seen him once, caught him scurrying past the cells with a bunch of bananas. “Some kind of giant, deformed monkey, it was,” the prisoner had later explained to the guards. “It looks at me with eyes big as oranges and then climbs right up the wall!”

Hopper laughed at the memory. The guards had laughed too, but they didn't put any stock into the prisoner's claim. That is, until people began to notice things going missing. Hopper had mostly stolen food, usually in small quantities, just what he needed for the day. But the paring knife he couldn't resist. The hat too. A yard of cloth. A small spyglass. A few books to help pass the time. It had been relatively easy, and Hopper's nest in the tower became littered with all sorts of knickknacks.

The soldiers had become much more watchful since then. And that was okay. Hopper didn't need those other things. But food and fresh water were another matter. First, they tried moving the food storage two or three times, but Hopper always sniffed it out. When that didn't work, the Brits had begun posting guards around the food—day and night. Now Hopper had to scramble just for scraps. He'd thought about going into town. There would be much easier pickings there, but no, he couldn't do that. He felt sure he'd die, if he did that. Of course he'd die, if he didn't eat. It had been three days since his last meal—an apple he'd fished out of the harbor. Hopper knew, risk or not, it was time.

Hopper saw the masts of the huge British ship of the line before he even got to the edge of the roof. Staying low and sliding his knapsack noiselessly along the roof tiles, Hopper crawled until he could see the ship. The HMS
Oxford
was as proud a ship as Hopper had ever seen—and perfect for his needs.
Shouldn't be too hard to
stay hidden on a ship that big
, Hopper thought. His mouth watered as he considered the endless array of provisions he'd seen loaded aboard all afternoon and into the night. And, as far as Hopper was concerned, the most important thing about the
Oxford
was that the ship was bound for London that very night.

Hopper thought about London as he secured both ends of his knapsack, hoisted it on his shoulder, and began the long climb down to the docks. He hadn't been back to England in three years. He had no idea if he'd know how to get back to the row house where he had been born and raised prior to coming to the islands. He thought if he could just find the old house, maybe that nice lady next door, Miss Hamilton, would take him in and take care of him. It was a lot of ifs, but that was all he had.

Hopper slid down a drainpipe and crouched behind a rain barrel. He scurried over to a carriage and ducked under the bellies of a pair of horses that smelled almost as bad as he did. They didn't seem to mind their visitor. Hopper watched the guards, waiting for the right moment to sprint to the mooring lines. But he had to pause a moment to look at the ship. This close, the
Oxford
looked even more gigantic—like a small city floating in the harbor. Each of the masts were shrouded in rigging and crossed with huge spars and tightly furled sails. Lanterns glimmered like fireflies along the vast deck. And there were too many cannons to count.