Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “You . . . you mean Anne may come? She may sail with me?”

  “If Declan Ross permits it, I will accept it as God’s will.”

  Cat had rapped softly on Captain Ross’s door several times and had heard nothing. He felt foolish and somewhat suspicious standing in the darkness outside the door. What would other members of the Brethren think if they found him out slinking around so late? Cat tried again, knocking harder than he meant to.

  “Stede,” came Ross’s sleepy grumble from inside. “This had better be blasted important!”

  “It’s Cat, sir.”

  The door opened and there stood Declan Ross, squinting and blinking. “Cat?” he said. “It’s rather late.”

  Cat had never seen the captain of the Robert Bruce look so bedraggled. His coppery corona of hair stood in some places and bent wildly in others. His beard was nearly twisted in a knot, and his shirt and breeches looked like they’d been balled up before Ross put them on.

  Cat resisted the urge to smile and said, “I’m sorry, Captain, but this couldn’t wait anymore.”

  Ross opened the door wide for Cat. The captain wondered what could be so important that it had to be said in the middle of the night. It had to be something rather private, else Cat could have mentioned it at dinner. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like good news. Ross lit a candle and brought it over to a square table near the window. When he and his visitor were seated, he said, “What’s this about, Cat?”

  Cat squirmed a little in his chair. “Well, sir, I’ve really learned a great deal about sailing from you and the crew of the Bruce.”

  “You knew a great deal before you met us,” said Ross, completely awake now and curious.

  “True enough, Captain, but I really appreciate all you—you and the crew—have done for me. You . . . you’ve become like family to me.”

  This? Ross wondered. This is what you woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me? There had to be more, so Ross waited.

  Cat sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “All to say that, well . . . I’ve become quite fond of you all . . . Anne especially.”

  Anne? Ross thought urgently. Wait just a moment. What does Anne—

  Cat continued. “I’m really not sure how to ask you this . . .”

  Ask me what? Ross sat up much straighter.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t move forward without your permission.”

  Permission . . . Anne? Ross gasped. Oh, dear Lord, no. He’s not—

  “Captain, I’m not entirely sure how old I am, you understand,” Cat stammered, “with my memory and all, but I must be seventeen, eighteen at the least. I’m a man now.”

  He is, Ross decided. He’s going to ask for my blessing for him to marry my daughter. Ross stood up abruptly and paced around the room.

  Cat watched the captain fearfully. “But, sir, if you’ll just let—”

  Ross scowled and held up a hand. His first thought was an emphatic NO. But then, as Cat fumbled for words, Ross looked him up and down. Cat was a natural sailor, a fine young man—much better than some Anne had taken a fancy to in the past. Of course, he was the son of a bloodthirsty—no, Ross decided, Cat was nothing like his father. He’d already saved Anne’s life . . . he’d no doubt look after her well. Declan Ross closed his eyes and said the most difficult words he could ever remember saying. “Very well then, Cat, you have my permission.”

  Cat was stunned. “But you haven’t even heard what I’m asking.”

  Ross raised a hand. “Oh, I think you’ve made your intentions perfectly clear. And I want you to know that I think it’s right noble of you to ask me before you propose.”

  “Propose?” Cat nearly fell out of his chair. “Wait, Captain Ross, I . . . I don’t want to marry Anne.”

  “What?” It was Captain Ross’s turn to be dumbfounded. “Well, why not?” Then he turned angry. “I’ll have you know my Anne is of the finest moral quality! She’d make a fine wife for any man—any man worthy of her, that is.”

  “Well, it’s not that someday . . . I mean, she’s smart and beautiful, and I guess I like her quite well, but I don’t think we’re quite ready for—”

  Ross rubbed his temples, shook his head, and grasped Cat by the shoulders. “Well then, what were you asking me, Cat?”

  “I want to take leave of the crew,” Cat blurted out. “Father Brun has asked me to captain one of his ships.”

  Declan Ross released Cat’s shoulders and sat down across from him with a thud. “When Father Brun asked you to come to Saba, did you know then?”

  “No.”

  Ross nodded. “Cat, I . . . I’m not sure what to say. You want to leave the Bruce?”

  “Not permanently,” Cat replied. “At least I don’t think it has to be permanent. Father Brun wants me for a specific mission. They’re going after a dangerous man called the Merchant.”

  Ross shook his head. “I don’t know that name,” he said. “And the Brethren rarely goes on the offensive. What’s this fellow done that’s got the monks ready to sail after him?”

  “Father Brun told me the Merchant is kind of a supplier—like his name sounds—but he’s been involved with some of the worst men who ever lived, many of them pirates. Father Brun calls him the enemy of the Brethren.”

  Ross was thoughtful for a moment. “I can understand why Father Brun wants you to sail for him. Cat, the way you took command of the Bruce at the Isle of Swords—just a skeleton crew, the volcano blowing up all around, the Raven with a huge head start—and you didn’t hesitate. You went after him and took him down. That’s what I call a man, and that’s what I call a real sailor. As I’ve told you before, I’ll not be holding any of my crew against his or her will, but what I’ve got to know is, have you got your heart set on this?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Ross nodded. “It’s settled then,” he said. “But you should talk to Anne. She’ll be crushed to hear.”

  “Captain Ross,” Cat said, “I want to take Anne with me. I want her to be my quartermaster on this journey.”

  “Is that right?” Ross asked, his voice trailing off and his expression thoughtful and distant. Anne had always wanted to command a ship—she had it in her blood. Ross knew she’d make an excellent quartermaster. But still, since his wife Abigail’s death, Ross had not willingly parted with their daughter for more than a few days at a time. “Has Father Brun agreed to house a woman on board? A woman in a command position? He knows if you go down, Anne would become captain?”

  “He told me to get your permission, but if granted, then Anne would be my second-in-command.”

  Ross wrung his hands in his lap. If he let her go, let her sail with Cat, there was always a chance that he would never see her again. Of course, keeping her aboard the Bruce as they sail about after pirates wasn’t exactly safe. So far, they’d battled only weak, inexperienced pirates, but sooner or later they’d run into a Bellamy or . . . Bartholomew Thorne, if he yet lived. And what then? Thorne had almost killed Anne once. Ross knew the monks of the Brethren. He knew that, in spite of being men of the cloth, they were capable warriors. They would keep Anne safe. To let her go might just keep Anne out of harm’s way and, at the same time, give her something she’s always wanted.

  “Before you decide, sir,” said Cat. “I want you to know that I would give my own life to protect Anne. But this man we’re after . . . he’s a terrible fiend. A monster.”

  He’s just a merchant, Ross thought. Compared to some of the devils that sail under the black flag, how bad could he be? Ross stroked his beard and made up his mind.

  “This is not easy for me,” Ross said. “Anne is my greatest treasure—my life’s blood. But I trust you, Cat. Sailing aboard the Bruce or not, you are one of my crew . . . and you always will be. You take care of my daughter.”

  Cat’s eyes brightened. “I will, sir.” He stood up and extended his hand to Captain Declan Ross. They shook, and Cat said, “May I go to her chamber? May I go tell her?”

  Ross nodded,
and Cat ran to the door. He was halfway out when he stopped and turned back a moment. “Captain Ross?”

  “Yes, lad?”

  “What you said earlier . . . about me marrying Anne?”

  Ross’s eyebrows bristled. “Don’t press your luck.”

  Anne answered the door, and Cat was struck by her sleepy beauty. Her crimson hair was all tussled, her eyes were crinkly and squinting, and her nightdress was creased and wrinkled.

  “Cat, what are you doing here?” she asked, a lazy smile on her lips. She looked into the hallway both ways, feeling very suspicious.

  “It’s okay,” Cat assured her. “I asked your father first if I could come see you.” Cat smiled inwardly. He wouldn’t dare tell her that her father had given him permission to ask her to marry him, but it was kind of funny. “May I come in?”

  “Uh, yes . . . since my father said it was okay.” She left the door open and walked across her chamber. She seemed like a ghost, all in white, moving so slowly until she glided to a seat on a chair. She lit a candle and looked up at Cat expectantly. “Well?”

  Cat followed her in and sat down across from her. “How would you like to have command of a ship?”

  “What?” Anne rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted.

  “A command,” he repeated. “Not just one of the crew, but a real command.”

  “My father commands the Bruce,” she said.

  “No, not the Bruce.”

  “Cat, what are you talking about?”

  “Well, actually, you’d be second-in-command. You’d be my quartermaster. Would that suit you?”

  Anne tilted her head and looked at him slyly. “Yes, of course, that would suit me.” She laughed. “It’s been my dream for longer than I can remember, but I’ll never get the chance to—wait, what did you mean by saying I’d be your quartermaster? Cat?”

  Cat had dragged it out long enough, so he told her. He told her about Father Brun’s invitation to take command of one of the Brethren’s three ships. He told her that he wanted Anne to be his quartermaster, and that her father had given his blessing. And he told her about their mission to find and capture the Merchant.

  Anne was stunned. She sat very still except for her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Are you sure, Cat?” she asked finally.

  “Yes, of course, I’m sure,” he said. “I spoke with Father Brun earlier tonight and then with your father. They agreed to—”

  “No,” Anne said, “I meant, are you sure you want me to be your quartermaster? You could probably have anyone from the Bruce, except Stede, of course. But my skills are—”

  “Your skills are superior to most any man I know,” said Cat, standing and taking her hand. “I trust you, Anne. I trust your judgment. I trust you to tell me the truth even when I don’t want to hear it. I’ve made my decision. Will you sail with me, Anne?”

  Merry tears spilled down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered. It was all the answer he needed.

  Cat bent down and gently kissed her hand. “Then, quartermaster Anne, I bid you good night. Sleep well, for tomorrow . . . we sail!”

  Cat left Anne and was so buoyed by the night’s events he practically floated back to his own chamber. But as he extinguished the candle and lay on his cot in the darkness, he began to wonder if choosing to sail with the Brethren had been the right decision. And now, he’d drawn Anne in as well. Wind whistled through his shutters, and Cat turned on his side. Somewhere out there the Merchant lurked.

  6

  DIPLOMACY

  Sir Nigel stared at the prowling red lions emblazoned on the tapestry that hung behind the tall throne and felt nothing but contempt for King George. A German king on the throne of England—ah! It’s a disgrace. And on top of that, Nigel had been forced to wait days to gain an audience with the king—delaying Nigel’s mission and infuriating Thorne. Now, feeling exasperated, Nigel looked up at the king waiting to see if His Majesty would respond to his proposition.

  But the king did not move. He scarcely seemed to be breathing, although it was hard to tell with what looked like forty pounds of satin and silk draped upon his plump frame. The king simply stared out into the cavernous throne room. From Sir Nigel’s position, the king’s gigantic nose resembled a pig’s snout. Sir Nigel imagined the lions from the tapestry chasing down and devouring the pig-king from Germany who dared sit on the English throne. But Sir Nigel kept his scorn concealed, thinking it best not to offend a man who, at the snap of his pudgy fingers, could have a person’s head separated from his body.

  A door somewhere behind a curtain quickly opened and shut, and a narrow man entered the room and knelt before the king. He had bulging eyes and a hawkish profile, and his powdered gray wig seemed to not quite fit. The king muttered something, and the other man arose and turned to Sir Nigel. “I am dreadfully sorry to delay,” he said. “I am Jacob Vogler. Please tell me what you want the king to know, and I will translate it for you.”

  “Translate?” echoed Sir Nigel.

  “Yes, of course,” Vogler replied. “His Majesty speaks English haltingly and prefers not to at all.”

  It was only with great concentration that Sir Nigel managed to close his gaping mouth. King of England . . . and he doesn’t speak English? If not so thoroughly disgusted, Sir Nigel might have laughed. But at least that explained the king’s silence.

  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.”