Isle of Swords (6 page)

The corvette rolled upward on the swell. A puff of gray smoke appeared on its portside. Then came the report—a muffled boom.

“This one will be for range,” Ross said. “I just hope he fires long.”

Except for the mournful wail of the gulls, the deck of the
Wallace
became silent. The crew crouched—waiting for the broadside to fall.

Suddenly, a huge plume of seawater erupted near the
Wallace
.

“He fired short—great. Stede, get us in closer!”

“Closer? That mon will drop a big roun' ball right on top of us!”

Ross took out a spyglass. “Trust me,” he said. “Chevillard wants the ship intact. He'll fire high when his ship rolls again. Just get me in there so the shot will go over our masts—not through them!”

As always, Stede turned the wheel at Ross's command, but doubt simmered on his brow, and he glared at his friend. At that moment, he caught sight of the men positioned high up on the masts, and Stede nodded repeatedly. “Oh, ya b' a sly mon, Declan Ross,” he said. “It just might wark!” Stede did his best to slide the
Wallace
in a little closer, but the wind—barely a breath now— offered no help.

The corvette lurched back, rolling on the swell. Four of Chevillard's ten portside cannons fired, wreathing his ship in gray smoke. The booms echoed ominously, and Declan grimaced, knowing that he'd doomed the crew . . . if his plan failed. “Ready?!” he shouted up to Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty. They raised their axes in answer. Ross held his cutlass aloft and scanned the sky.

The first shot landed just short of the bow. The second tore through the rail and part of the roof of the cabins on the stern. The third and fourth shots were high. One cleared the foremast by a foot. The other whooshed harmlessly between the webs of rigging on the mainsail. At that moment, Ross slammed down his cutlass and yelled, “NOW!!”

Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty brought their axes down on the rigging that secured the sails to the spars and the masts. The sharp blades cut the ropes. The topsail and two mainsails crashed to the deck. The
William Wallace
now really was dead in the water.

7
CROSSING SWORDS

C
ome on, take the bait. Take the bait,” muttered Ross as he watched the sleek corvette rise and fall on the sea swells.

“I don't much like b'ing the bait,” said Stede with a nervous laugh.

“I don't like it either,” Ross replied. “But I'd prefer a stand-up fight to being blown to smithereens and letting one of Thorne's men pick our carcasses.”

“Yer not doing much to comfort me, mon.”

“He's got to know something's wrong,” Ross argued. “He's seen our sails fall. We haven't returned fire. He's got to come.”

The corvette did not fire another shot. At last, it turned and drifted toward the
William Wallace
. “Yes!” Ross clapped Stede on the back. “Arrogant scoundrel! I knew he'd come.”

Stede took the spyglass and scanned its deck. “Must b' close to two hundred sailors on that ship! Did ya b' knowing that too?”

“I'd take the crew of the
Wallace
even against four hundred Frenchmen!”

Chevillard's dark ship turned and drifted so close that the crew of the
Wallace
could see the sailors swarming on the enemy deck.

The Butcher's men wore black bandannas and had red sashes tied around the waist of whatever surcoat or shirt they had on. They brandished pistols, cutlasses, boarding axes, and many other weapons.

Ross didn't see Chevillard, but that was not a surprise.

Chevillard would wait until the battle was well underway before sticking his neck out. Ross had heard tales of the Butcher's famous heavy cutlass stolen from a Spanish master swordsmith. Ross had also heard stories of the plundering of Lake Maracaibo—stories of how Chevillard had lined up more than seventy settlers and personally beheaded one after the other.

“Let's not make this easy on them, lads!” Ross called back to the crew just before the first grappling hook sailed over the railing of the
William Wallace
. Ulrich, one of the gunners, brought his axe down on it quick. The rope snapped instantly, but dozens of other hooks rained down. One skewered Ulrich's shoulder and slammed him tight to the side and dragged him overboard.

As soon as the
Wallace
's crew appeared at the rails to cut off the hooks, Chevillard's swivel guns opened up. With whoops and shouts, pirates in black and red swung down from the corvette's masts. The first of Chevillard's men to land on the
Wallace
's deck found himself staring into the wide barrel of Stede's thunder gun.

“Yer not welcome aboard,” said the West Indian sailor, and he pulled the trigger. The sound of this cannon of a pistol drowned out all other noise.

In an instant, the fight erupted all over the deck. Enemies streamed in across uncut ropes. Pistols and muskets fired all around. Smoke filled the air. Swords clashed, and men from both sides groaned and fell. Cromwell, Henrik, and Smitty leaped from their perches and brought their axes down on several heads in black bandannas. Stede put away the thunder gun—which, while deadly, took far too long to reload. In its place, Stede drew two long machetes from scabbards slung behind his back. He went to work, cutting a swath through the enemy's first wave. Ross's men were better fighters hand-to-hand, but Chevillard's numbers began to overwhelm them.

Ross waited and watched until he was convinced that most of Chevillard's fighting force had boarded the
Wallace
. Then he saw Midge and Red Eye slip over the side unnoticed. That was it. The rest was out of his control. “Now for it, lads!” he yelled, drawing his cutlass. “Give 'em one for Scotland! Give 'em one for old William Wallace!”

He leaped into the fray, rolled, and took down two of Chevillard's men with a long, hard slash across their knees. Ross ducked and, in one brutal movement, swung his cutlass just as a pirate in black aimed a pistol at his head. The pirate's arm—pistol and all—fell at the feet of the astonished sailor. A kick to the midsection sent him flying, and Ross ran to the next fight.

Belowdecks, Anne wiped a moist cloth across the wounded man's forehead. He lay on his side upon a table so that Nubby could treat his back. “These are most grievous wounds,” said the ship's cook and doctor.

They heard the cannon shots, the muskets, the shouts, and heavy footfalls. Nubby ignored them and continued his work. Anne grimaced, wondering if at any moment, Chevillard's sailors would crash through the cabin door. If they did, Anne would be ready with her cutlass. But she hoped it would not come to that.

As Anne continued to wipe the dried blood and grime from the man's welted face, she realized that he was much younger than she had at first supposed. He had no beard or moustache, but she hadn't noticed—her attention had been so drawn by the wounds and blood.
How old?
she wondered.
Sixteen, seventeen?

He groaned and arched his back. “Sorry, lad!” said Nubby. He lifted a cloth daubed in a cranberry-colored paste. “That's just the ointment doing its work.”

The lad's eyes fluttered, then opened for just a moment. He looked up at Anne. “I . . . I know you, don't I?” he said weakly before his eyes closed. Anne stepped backward.

“What did 'e say?” Nubby asked. But before Anne could answer, a tremendous crack sounded from somewhere beyond the cabin door.

“Topside!” Anne exclaimed. “They're trying to get down here!”

“Anne,” Nubby ordered. “Help me lay 'im on his back—if there's a ruckus, I don't want 'im fallin' off the table!” Another sharp crack. Anne's hand went instantly to the hilt of her sword.

“You'll do 'im no good that way!” Nubby barked. “Hide yourself !”

Nubby reached into his coat and withdrew a very long knife. Then he ducked into a tall cabinet. “Hide!” he hissed at Anne.

She ignored him and drew her cutlass. “Oh, you're just like your father,” he said, and slammed the cabinet door shut. Anne heard boots on the stairs just outside the door.

Declan Ross clambered up to the forecastle deck. The battle still raged, and it seemed the crew of the
Wallace
was holding their own.

But to his dismay, Ross realized that Chevillard's men now held the starboard rail. The corvette had drifted closer, and a long gangplank extended the distance between the two ships. A dark shape appeared from this gangplank and strode onto the deck of the
Wallace
. He wore a captain's tricorn hat, but gun smoke hid his face.

Ross watched as this tall enemy swept out a long curved blade.

Ross's men, Henrik and Smitty, stood in the villain's way. But they were no match for Thierry Chevillard, the Butcher.

“Nooooo!” Ross yelled, leaping down from the forecastle only to be blocked by a sea of combatants. The crowd twisted and thickened, and Ross could see nothing of his enemy's progress. He made his way at last to the portside rail and grabbed a rope that had been tied off there. He climbed up above the melee and saw that Chevillard was headed toward the stern. He stopped at the door that led belowdecks to the captain's quarters, and slammed a heavy black boot into the center of the door. It shivered. The second kick did more damage. And the third sundered the door altogether.

He's looking for me,
Ross thought. He felt a chill.
Anne!

He began to run along the rail. “I'm here!” he yelled.

“Chevillard!” But through the clamor of battle, the French pirate paid no heed to a distant shout from one man. Two of his mates leading the way, Chevillard disappeared through the door.

“No!!” Ross yelled. He raced along the rail recklessly—too recklessly. He reached for a rope to steady himself, but his eyes were trained on the stern. He missed the rope, slipped, and fell. His head banged smartly on the deck. Slowly, Ross got to one knee.
Anne!
he thought desperately. Then he collapsed.