Call of the Wraith

by Kevin Sands

  “All right,” I whispered, my voice barely higher than the surf. “Tom and I will climb down the cliff near the ship’s stern. We’ll swim to the boat and use the rope ladder to get on board. Once we’re on deck, Tom will choke the guard until he passes out. Remember: no swords, no guns. If we make a sound, we’re finished.”

  Tom nodded.

  “Sally and Wise will keep watch from above. I’ll go belowdecks and free the children. Tom and I will send them up the cliff, then follow once the last one’s safe. Sally, as soon as the children reach the top, you and Wise run with them toward Seaton. Some of them will be Dutch, so hopefully Moppet will understand and can let them know what to do.”

  She’d already helped me a little. As we’d hurried through the woods, after much gesturing and confusion, I’d got her to teach me a word of Dutch, one I thought I might need in the hold.

  Wise nocked an arrow in his longbow. Sally drew the pistol I’d given her from her belt. Tom gave her the musket, too, for all the good it might do. An extra shot wouldn’t help much against fifteen.

  • • •

  The climb down was terrifying. Not because it was slippery—if anything, the pressure from our boots formed little steps in the snow, making it easier to find my footing than I’d dared hope—but because the whole way, we were exposed. The path we took down, opposite the cave, allowed the boat to shield us from the pirate at the fire, but left us totally visible to the man on deck. All he had to do was look behind him, and he’d see us, black shapes against the cliff.

  I never thought I’d pray for the cold to turn even more bitter. But I did, and whether it was my prayers or simple luck, the sentries remained huddled around their flames, and we made it to the beach undiscovered.

  Now we had to board the ship. Slowly, slowly, slowly, I put a boot into the water.

  My whole body tightened with the chill—and I’d barely touched it. When I waded in knee high, I prayed again, this time that the cords I’d tied around my deerskin breeches would keep the water from seeping underneath.

  The seal worked—yet still I froze. The shock of the cold made my breath rattle and my head swim. Images filled my mind. I remembered my nightmare: caught in the ice of Cocytus, the ninth circle of hell, under the terrible glare of the Raven. But another memory came, too. It struck me like a cannonball, and I couldn’t stop thinking about

  the trip. We were on the ship, on our way back from France, when the storm came. Hail pounded the deck, scarred the wood, pelted my head. The boat heaved in the swells, ten feet high.

  “Christopher!”

  A wave crashed over the rail, driving me into the fo’c’sle.

  “Christopher! Christopher! Over here!”

  Tom. That was Tom’s voice. Sally added her own as a second wave smashed me into the deck.

  “The yawl! Christopher! We’re in the yawl!”

  I could just make them out through the rain. Jagged hailstones scoured my skin, and I could feel the soul of the storm. It wasn’t just angry. It was angry at me.

  I gripped the rail with the crook of my arm, terrified to move, cupping something warm and trembling to my chest. A bird. I knew her now. It was Bridget.

  “Christopher!” Sally screamed. “Look out!”

  I turned to see the wave. It was a wall of water, twenty feet high. It picked me up, threw me down—and then I was flying

  backward. The memory shattered as my boot slipped on a slime-covered rock. I lost my footing, and my windmilling arms made a splash.

  The liquid ice made my muscles seize, but the shock of it barely registered. Something much worse had happened than getting wet.

  I’d made a noise.

  CHAPTER

  46

  TOM FROZE, EYES WIDE WITH terror.

  A voice called. The pirate, on the deck of the Andalus. The words were harsh, guttural. I didn’t understand them; I’d never even heard the language. But I could guess what he’d said.

  Who’s there?

  A second voice came from the cave, questioning.

  The first man called back, wary. The light shifted as he pulled the torch from the prow. I heard footsteps on the deck, coming closer.

  Tom grabbed my collar. What do we do? he mouthed, panicked.

  I didn’t know. If we ran, we’d make noise in the water. If we stayed, he’d see us. He’d have to, unless something else came—

  Something else did come. From the darkness, Bridget swooped down. Her wings slapped together, echoing in the quiet, as she landed on the rail of the ship. She cooed.

  The man on the Andalus called to his friend, sounding exasperated. The man in the cave replied, laughing. It’s just a pigeon.

  I sent a silent thanks up to Sally. But then the light came forward again. I could see the pirate on the ship now, his head covered by his fur hat. He approached Bridget, clucking at her. From the cave came another call, a question. What are you doing?

  The pirate pulled a pistol from his belt.

  No! I thought, but it was the other man who saved her. What sounded like a curse came from the cave. The pirate on deck cursed back, but he relaxed his aim, swatting the barrel at Bridget instead. She flapped away, back into the darkness.

  It took me a moment to remember: The pirates had to stay silent, too. A gunshot in the dead of night would carry a long way in the cold. This close to Seaton, the report would give them away.

  The light faded, returning to the prow, and I could breathe again. Slowly, so slowly, I pushed myself out of the water. My skin, wet, stung brutally in the chill of the air. If I didn’t soon find warmth, I’d freeze to death.

  The pool in the cove deepened, and we had to swim the rest of the way to the ship. At the rope ladder, I motioned for Tom to go first. Once he was on deck, I began my own climb.

  Tom disappeared beyond the rail, moving cautiously, his footsteps blending in with the creaking of the timbers. I didn’t hear him grab the pirate, but by the time I got to the deck, Tom was already lying on his back, choking the man with his massive forearm, legs wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his chest. The pirate wriggled, trying to free himself from Tom’s grip, until his eyes went glassy and rolled back in his head. Tom didn’t let go until he was sure the man was completely out.

  I looked toward the cave. The other sentry stood with his back to us, hands held over the fire.

  Tom lifted the unconscious pirate and carried him into the shadows cast by the fo’c’sle, where he pulled the man’s pistol from his belt, then used the belt itself to bind the pirate’s hands and feet together. Tom would stay here, keeping watch to see the man didn’t wake. As for me, I needed to hurry. If the sentry turned from the campfire, his companion’s absence might be noticed.

  Julian had said the children were being kept in the hold, through the hatch behind the mainmast, near the aftcastle. I crept toward it, crouched, one eye on the deck, the other on the man by the cave.

  I slid out the bar that held the hatch in place and opened it. A reek of waste and body odor rose from below. A ladder led down into the dank.

  The hold was tight and damp, the only light a dim, hooded lantern hanging from a hook next to the entrance. I could make out two doors on either side of me, a third behind the ladder. In the other direction, a corridor led away.

  I lifted the lantern from its hook and checked the doors. None of them were locked. The one on my right opened to the smell of salt, overpowering even the scent of the ocean. I thought I smelled stale bread, too; their room for provisions. I also smelled spices: part of their booty, I guessed. I left it behind. I was only here for the children.

  The door behind the ladder opened to a scent I knew well. Pungent, penetrating, the stench filled the air.

  Gunpowder.

  I’d found their magazine, where the ship’s weapons were stored. A dozen barrels stood stacked against the far wall, held fast with rope nets. More netting lay beside them, pinning a pyramid of cannonballs to the floor. There was enough gunpowder and shot to s
tart my own war.

  But a war was the last thing I wanted right now. I needed quiet. So I closed the door to the magazine—carefully—and moved on to the third. And I found something even more interesting.

  There was a small desk in here, papers scattered around like it had been ransacked. A leather volume lay atop it. The notes inside were in Dutch—the former captain’s ship’s log, I guessed. Above that, tacked to the wall, were a pair of maps. One was a navigational chart of the waters of northern Europe, marked everywhere with rhumb lines, the crisscross of bearings that allowed a navigator to follow a straight course between ports. The markings here were Dutch, too.

  The other map showed only the Channel. Here were no rhumb lines. Instead, the southern coast of England was marked everywhere with Xs. Little notes had been scribbled in Spanish beside each one, marking coves and hidden outposts.

  A pirate’s map. That’s what this was, a guide to the places an outlaw ship could find safe harbor.

  This must have been Álvaro’s. I stared at the map, and everywhere there was an X, all I could see was more misery. More men to be murdered, more children to be kidnapped, more lives to be ruined. My heart sank with the futility of our quest. After all, even if we saved these children, the pirates could always find new ones to take.

  Well, I wouldn’t make it easy for them. I tore the maps from the wall, stuffed them into my breeches. I might not be able to stop the pirates, but I could prevent a raid or two. With Álvaro and his map gone, let them try to find safe coves now.

  In the meantime, I still had the children to find. The only place left to check was down the passage. I didn’t think the stench belowdecks could get more foul, but it did. And when I turned the corner, and I saw the brig, I understood why.

  CHAPTER

  47

  I’D FOUND THEM.

  Filthy and ragged, freezing and starving, twenty children huddled behind the iron bars. They were crammed together so thick, so still, my guts dropped.

  I’m too late, I thought in despair. The room was like ice, the only warmth provided by a single brazier, the flame low, capped with a plate of holed iron. They’ve already frozen to death.

  But they shifted as I brought my lantern close to the bars. Twenty terrified faces looked back at me, and their pain made my heart break.

  I whispered to them. “My name is

  and the truth of it came like a thunderbolt: I knew my name, knew it, deep in my bones

  Christopher Rowe,” I said, and I swelled at the sound of it. “I work for King Charles. He sent me to free you.”

  Five of the children stared at me, barely daring to hope. These must have been the English children, who understood my words.

  A boy spoke, his voice trembling. “The king? He really sent you?”

  “Absolutely.” I drew a vial from the sash under my shirt. “You’re all so important to him. Emma Lisle”—a girl sat up—“and David Cavill”—now a boy joined her—“and Little Jack”—the boy who spoke smiled shyly—“he sent me for all of you. Your families are waiting for you to come home.”

  They scrambled toward the bars. I held out my hands.

  “Shhh,” I whispered. “You have to be quiet, all right? We’re going to sneak out of here, and we can’t let the pirates hear us. This means you can’t make any sound, not even a peep, no matter what. You need to be brave. Can you be brave for the king?” They nodded, and I was so proud of their courage.

  Now I needed to deal with the Dutch children. There were fifteen of them, all looking confused but hopeful from the way the English had rushed toward me. I put my finger to my lips and spoke the word Moppet had taught me.

  “Stil,” I said. “Stil.” Quiet.

  They all copied me, every one of them, fingers on their lips. I couldn’t help but smile.

  But we weren’t free yet. Little Jack came forward and grabbed the bars. His hands, so small, couldn’t wrap all the way around them. “The door is locked,” he whispered. “Do you have the key?”

  “I don’t need a key,” I said. “My master taught me about a very special liquid that melts iron.” I showed him the vial I held. “It’s called oil of vitriol, and when I pour it on the padlock—like this—it will dissolve.”

  The children clustered around the bars as the iron of the padlock began to fizz. Then they coughed at the acrid stink coming from the bubbles. I shooed them back, nervous. I doubted the guard by the cave could hear their coughing, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

  I waited for the vitriol to stop fizzing, then dripped more on the padlock. The children huddled against the far wall, keeping their distance from the smell that made them choke. At their feet, I saw how badly the pirates had been starving them. There were four empty bowls and three tin cups, not nearly enough to feed this group. As the lock burned, so, too, I burned with hatred for the pirates above.

  The padlock wasn’t very strong—it didn’t take much to imprison five-year-olds, I thought bitterly—but this was our good fortune, because it only took a few minutes for the lock to snap. I opened the brig, cringing at the creak of the iron door. The children followed me down the passage like lambs, silent as could be.

  We reached the hatch. “Tom,” I whispered. “Tom! Are you there?”

  He loomed above us. The children pulled back, scared.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “That’s

  and I knew him, too; I knew him

  my best friend, Tom.” I knelt next to the children. “He’s really big and really strong, and he’s never, ever let me down. He’s going to show you the way back home.”

  One by one, they climbed up to the deck. Tom led them to the rail. We didn’t know if they could swim, so we decided not to chance it. Tom went into the water first and swam to shore with each one on his back.

  I watched the cave to make sure we hadn’t been spotted. I tried to keep my mind focused, but more memories flooded in, coming in waves. And then, suddenly, they were all there. Tom and Sally, Master Benedict and Isaac, Lord Ashcombe and Simon Chastellain. All my friends, all of them, all. Even my enemies returned to me: the Raven in Paris, the Cult of the Archangel—

  I froze.

  The Cult of the Archangel, I thought.

  The whisper came from the water. “Christopher. Christopher!”

  It was Tom, waiting for me to send the last child down—a little Dutch girl, just like our Moppet. I helped her onto the ladder, then turned away.

  “Where are you going?” Tom said.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  His whisper carried just far enough for me to hear it. “Oh no.”

  • • •

  By the time I returned to the rail, Tom was ushering the last of the children up the cliff. I couldn’t believe how courageous they’d been. In the faint light of the pirates’ flames, I could just see the ridge where Sally waited, pulling the children up the last few inches and sending them scurrying toward Seaton, Wise leading the way.

  I lowered myself into the water and prayed. A few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, please. And we’ll have pulled off the impossible.

  But this prayer was not to be answered. As I reached the foot of the cliff, I heard a groan from behind me, coming from the deck of the ship.

  “Hurry,” I whispered to Tom, who climbed ahead of me. “The pirate’s waking.”

  Suddenly Tom gasped. “I forgot,” he said in despair.

  “Forgot what?”

  The groan came again. From the cave echoed a call. A question.

  “His pistol,” Tom said. He climbed more frantically now. “I left it on the deck when I went into the water to carry the children. I forgot to pick it up.”

  I scrambled behind Tom, my rising panic making me clumsy. My hands, already burning with frost, slipped in the snow.

  Come on, I begged my fingers. Oh, please, come on.

  The guard by the cave called again, sharply. The man on deck didn’t answer, but I could hear his shuffling.

  I
risked a glance back. With horror, I saw the pirate had managed to slip free of the belt that had bound him. Now he staggered over to the rope ladder. Confused, he stared at his feet, where the stolen pistol rested.

  I crawled. Tom reached the top and hauled himself over the ridge.

  The pirate picked up the pistol.

  Just a few feet more. I crawled.

  A call came again from the cave, no longer with any attempt to mute his voice. This time, the call was returned. A shout.

  We’d been spotted.

  Up I went. I heard a snap behind me. My heart skipped as I recognized the sound. A trigger, pulled; a flintlock, hammering down.

  I crawled, ears buzzing with the sparkling fizz of gunpowder.

  And then he shot me.

  CHAPTER

  48

  PAIN.

  A spear, driven into my shoulder. A dagger, deep in my flesh. The slug slammed me into the cliff, and suddenly I was slipping, my left arm hot and numb.

  The shot echoed in the cavern, rang through the night, so loud I thought they’d hear it in London. Even in the dim light, I could see my blood as I fell. It streaked across the white, leaving a trail where my shoulder dragged against the snow. I smelled it, too, hot, metallic, and then I tumbled the rest of the way down.

  I lay there, breathing. Still the shot seemed to echo. Now voices came, too, not a pair but a chorus, their song alarmed and angry.

  I felt my master standing over me. Get up, Christopher, he said.

  My shoulder screamed. My head swam with the pain. Still I heard his plea. I need you to get up.

  I rose, shoulder burning. I went to the cliff and again began to crawl. My arm howled—oh, merciful Savior, how it howled. Only instinct and terror kept me going—so much terror, so much pain, tears blinding me so badly I couldn’t see.

  Another shot cracked into the night, and a slug punched into the cliff. Another, and my cheek stung, a puff of bloody snow spraying my face.

  I couldn’t help it; I turned to look. Half the pirates were rising; half had already thrown off their furs. All had pistols; all drew them; all of them aimed right at me.