Isle of Fire

by Wayne Thomas Batson

“Brand?” Dolphin called as she unlatched the front door. Her family’s old house was silent. She closed the door and stepped lightly down the hall. She found her husband asleep on a couch in the library. And Hopper lay nestled in the crook of his arm. The book of sea charts that Hopper had found so interesting lay open on her husband’s chest.

  “Wake up, sleepyheads,” she said as she gently nudged them.

  “You’re back,” Blake mumbled with a sleepy smile. Hopper opened his bright eyes and smiled as well.

  “I’m sorry to rouse the two of you,” Dolphin said, “but we have a long journey ahead of us.”

  Blake, still not quite awake, asked, “Where are we going?”

  “The Port of Ipswich.”

  “Ipswich?” He was awake now. “Why on earth are we going there?”

  “In time,” Dolphin said, hoisting Hopper to his feet. Then she picked up a bulging gray satchel and said, “I took the liberty of gathering a few things we left on the Oxford.”

  “You . . . you went to the ship?” Blake sat bolt upright. “Dolphin, darling, what have you been up to?”

  She smiled impishly and replied, “It is sixty miles from here to Ipswich, give or take. Plenty of time to tell you all things. But in the meantime, put this on.” She tossed him a dark, triangular lump.

  “My hat?” He ran a finger along the gold trip on the tricorn hat.

  “Yes,” Dolphin replied, her voice hard. “Yes, it is your hat.”

  The Oxford had left the Port of London near midnight. Commodore Nigel Wetherby had been instated as the captain of the ship, and he had ordered the ship ready to sail north to investigate pirate activity in the Baltic Sea. The Oxford had left the Thames River behind an hour later and now sailed into the Straight of Dover on its way to the North Sea. Commodore Wetherby stood next to Mr. Jordan at the helm of the ship. “It’s quite sporting of you to stay on as quartermaster,” said Wetherby. “You do understand, I do not hold you or any of the crew responsible for Blake’s actions.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Jordan. “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  The moon was barely visible behind the lumpy gray clouds. The wind was steady, and the ship slipped quietly through the water. Commodore Wetherby looked at the dark silhouette of England’s coastline. There was a distant glow, and Wetherby took it to be Colchester. “It is a beautiful night for sailing,” he said.

  “Stunning, sir,” said Mr. Jordan. He began to sing a cheery little tune until Wetherby gave him a look. “Say, Commodore?”

  “What is it, Mister Jordan?”

  “We’re sailing for Sweden, then?” asked the quartermaster. “I’ve not heard of pirates operating out of those cold waters.”

  Wetherby hesitated. He wondered how much he should tell them. Of course, it wouldn’t matter once they arrived and Thorne took over. “It’s an island south of there. Gotland it is called . . . was deserted until the pirates came. We can’t have them shutting down our shipping lanes.”

  They sailed in silence for some time after that.

  Wetherby descended from the quarterdeck and strolled the deck. He passed a deck hand he remembered from the years he served on the Oxford under Blake. “Evening, Matthew,” Wetherby said as the sailor passed.

  “Evening, sir,” Matthew replied, but the expression on his face was chilly. In fact, sailor after sailor, they all responded to their new commanding officer in similar fashion. Finally, Commodore Wetherby caught up to Mr. Tyler Dovel, a young officer who had just been assigned to the Oxford. “Why are the men so grim?” Wetherby asked him.

  “Haven’t the foggiest idea,” answered Mr. Tyler.

  “Well, I don’t like it. Why don’t you open up a cask of wine? Long trip ahead of us . . . might as well pass it merrily.”

  “It’s not a good idea while we’re on duty, sir.” Tyler’s face was virtually void of emotion.

  The commodore pursed his lips. “Is that so?” he asked. “Interesting that everyone should be suddenly so by-the-book.”

  “If there’s nothing else, sir?” Tyler looked at his commander expectantly.

  “No, I suppose that will be all.”

  The carriage raced along the bumpy country road so fast that Blake feared the frame would snap. “What did you tell the driver?” Blake asked.

  “Oh . . . nothing, really,” replied Dolphin. “Just that the fate of England depends on us getting to Ipswich in time.”

  “This is fun!” said Hopper, bouncing six inches off his seat.

  “In time for what?” Blake demanded.

  Dolphin did not answer directly. “Did you know that Nigel Wetherby assumed command of the Oxford?”

  “What?” Blake’s face contorted. “Wetherby? That thieving—Ah!

  I should have known. The blighter’s probably sailing it to his master right now.”

  Dolphin looked out of the carriage window. From the road she saw the dark expanse of the sea. “Not exactly,” she said.

  “Mister Jordan,” said Commodore Nigel Wetherby as he looked through a spyglass at the English coastline.

  “Yes, sir?” replied the quartermaster at the wheel.

  “Is there some particular reason why we’re hugging the coast?”

  “Quite right, sir. That we are.”

  “But why?”

  Mr. Jordan shook his head. “Aw, now, sir . . . you don’t want to spoil the surprise, do you?”

  “What on earth are you talking about, quartermaster? Everyone on this ship has been moping about like they’ve been baptized in vinegar and lost their last friend.”

  “It’s all part of the scheme,” Mr. Jordan confessed. “See, me and the lads have something real special planned for you. There’s this bloke down in Ipswich who makes as fine a rum as—”

  “Never mind,” said Commodore Wetherby, happy to finally see some sparks of acceptance. “I will not ruin the surprise. But we cannot tarry in Ipswich.”

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Jordan.

  The Oxford slid quietly up the River Orwell on its way to Ipswich. Each time the ship approached a quay or dock, Commodore Wetherby found his hopes rising. But each time, Mr. Jordan sailed the ship by, and he looked forward without wavering.

  “We’re almost there, sir,” said Mr. Jordan to the commodore’s unspoken question.

  And at last, up ahead to port, sticking out into the river like a dark finger, there was a long fishing pier. Mr. Jordan steered the ship expertly alongside. The crew of the Oxford tossed mooring lines overboard. Dockworkers tied off the lines, and the ship was secure. Mr. Tyler assisted several deck hands in lowering a gangplank.

  Mr. Jordan and several of the Oxford’s crew escorted Commodore Wetherby down to the pier just as the deck hands rolled several barrels to a stop. The commodore eyed the barrels and smiled. “Is this the surprise you promised, Mister Jordan?”

  “Yes, sir, it is,” he replied. And then, nodding to the tallest of the dockworkers, Jordan said, “Evening, Captain.”

  The dockworker opened the barrel and removed something. He placed it snugly on his head and ran a finger lovingly along the gold trim. “Hello, Nigel.”

  “Blake!” Wetherby gasped, and his hand went to his waist. “What the devil—”

  “Not a good idea, old friend,” said Blake, lifting a pistol to Wetherby’s eye level and cocking its hammer back. Wetherby looked around and saw that each of the men from the Oxford had also drawn guns. He’d be dead before he freed his own gun. He stared in disbelief as the other two dock workers looked up. It was Blake’s wife and that meddling rat boy.

  “Mister Jordan, if you please,” said Commodore Blake, “take Mister Wetherby’s weapons.”

  “Does that mean you wish me to cut out his lying tongue?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  Mr. Jordan removed Wetherby’s pistol, his cutlass, and a booted dagger. “He was heading to the Baltic Sea, Captain,” explained Mr. Jordan. “Said there’s pirates on an island south of the Swedish mainland.”

  “
Gotland Island?” Blake muttered. “That’s where Thorne’s holed up, is it?”

  Wetherby did not answer. He stared back at Blake venomously. Mr. Jordan smacked the commodore’s hat off Wetherby and growled, “Answer your commanding officer, you turncoat.”

  Wetherby’s face reddened and his breathing quickened, but he didn’t utter a word.

  “Looks like someone’s already cut out his tongue,” said Blake. “No, I imagine you’ve already said too much, haven’t you?” Then he turned to Mr. Jordan. “Take him below decks and lock him up. We have one brief stop to make in Edinburgh, but then . . . let’s complete Wetherby’s course. Bartholomew Thorne has been playing dead long enough.”

  “Yes, sir!” Mr. Jordan replied heartily.

  But just as he jerked his captive around, the slightest hint of a smile appeared on Nigel Wetherby’s face.

  21

  WHEN ALL BECOMES DARKNESS

  What was that?” asked Anne, who had followed right behind Cat. They’d heard a peculiar sound like a metallic wheel turning. Then there came a muffled boom from around the bend behind them.

  “I don’t know,” said Cat, turning and pulling Anne back the way they had come. “Father Brun?”

  No one answered. When Anne and Cat came around the bend, they found a dark iron door barring their way. “Father Brun!” Cat yelled.

  “We’re cut off,” came the monk’s muted voice. “There’s no latch on this side.”

  “None on this either,” said Anne.

  “Cat, Anne, try to find a passage leading up if you can,” said Father Brun. “We’ll try to find you, but no matter what, try to find a way out.”

  “What about the Merchant?” asked Anne.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Father Brun said, “In my zeal to capture him, in my fervor at nearly having him within my grasp, I . . . I’ve led us into his trap. Find a way out, Cat. Forget about the Merchant. He has the upper hand!”

  “Yessss, yes, I do,” said the Merchant. “Run little Cat, while you can. And good-bye, Father Brun.” The Merchant reached down beside the levers and grasped an iron wheel valve. With great effort, he turned the wheel to the left, followed by a larger wheel next to it.

  Father Brun led and, with Brother Dmitri at his heels, raced back along the corridor. He saw an opening on his right and, hoping to circle back and find some way to meet up with Cat and Anne, he took it.

  “STOP!!” Brother Dmitri bellowed. “That sound!” Above their racing hearts there arose a breathy, whooshing sound like waves crashing one after another on a shore.

  Father Brun closed his eyes a moment and clenched his teeth. When he opened his eyes, he said, “He’s let in the sea.”

  “Run!” Cat yelled, racing down the tunnel away from the iron door.

  “But which way?” Anne fired back. “We could be running to our deaths!”

  “I don’t see what choice we ha—” Cat went around the corner too fast. His boots lost traction on the slippery stone passage, and Cat sprawled to the floor. He cracked his chin smartly and tasted blood.

  “Cat!” Anne ran to his side.

  “Okay,” Cat said, spitting at the wall. “Walking it is, then.”

  Anne laughed. “We’ll walk fast,” she said, helping Cat to his feet. As he stood, he noticed a fist-sized hole cut into the rock overhead. No, cut wasn’t quite the right word. It looked as if some strange eel-like creature had bored deep into the stone. Cat eyed it curiously for just a moment more, and the two of them trod ahead. The tunnel soon branched off. One passage very clearly went down, spiraling into darkness. The other went on more or less level but was more narrow and wet.

  “This way,” Cat said. He opted for the lighted tunnel.

  “No, not that way,” the Merchant hissed. He looked down at his network of levers and valves and thought for a moment. Then he said, “More complicated, and I don’t want you there for long, but still it could serve the same purpose.” He pulled two levers at the same time and listened to the music of the metal wheels turning.

  The water roared into the passage. Father Brun sprinted away. Brother Dmitri and the others bolted after him. They turned at the closed iron door and careened back into the main tunnel. A side passage leading downward opened suddenly on the left, but Father Brun saw another branch to the tunnel just up ahead. Which one? He had only three steps to decide.

  “This way!” He took the first left, but no sooner was he through the opening, when a door swung slowly away from the wall and began to seal off the passage. Brother Dmitri tried to follow. His head and most of his body squeezed into the new passage, but the door caught his right shoulder. At that same moment, Brother Diego and Brother Cyprian tried to stop and help from the other side, but a torrent of seawater smacked into them. They scratched and clawed for a hold, but the flood took them screaming down the passage.

  “Brun, leave me!!” bellowed Brother Dmitri, the water blasting through the gap between the door and the wall. “I am done!” The door continued to press on his shoulder. His eyes bulged, and he roared in anger.

  Father Brun did not heed Dmitri’s words. He fought through the spray and slammed his fighting rods into the narrow breach above Dmitri’s shoulders. Then, using the rods as levers, he tried to pry back the door. Dmitri coughed, trying desperately to breathe, but the water pressure was so intense that every time he opened his mouth, it filled immediately. “GO!”

  Father Brun lost hold of one of the rods for a moment but jammed it back into place. It was a better place, and the leverage started to work. Suddenly, one of the rods cracked and broke, and the door pressed even harder on Dmitri’s shoulder. Dmitri made no sound, and Father Brun feared he was dead. He used both hands on the remaining rod and, uttering a silent prayer, pulled with all his might. The door moved just slightly, but it was enough. The water surged into the chamber, pushing Brother Dmitri through. He tumbled on top of Father Brun just as the door slammed shut.

  “Dmitri . . . Dmitri!” Father Brun rolled him over and put his ear to Dmitri’s lips. He wasn’t sure if he heard or felt any breath at all. Even so, he hoisted his sodden friend up and began to drag him down the new passage. This was no easy task. Dmitri was a large man and, as dead weight, was extraordinarily heavy. Father Brun groaned with every step. His breaths came out in gasps, and he could feel his heart crashing against his ribs.

  He stumbled around a bend into a small round chamber and found himself face-to-face with Edmund Scully.

  Cat and Anne hastened along a narrow, curling passage when they heard a tremendous groaning from up ahead. They came around the bend just in time to see two large doors slam shut, sealing off two passages, leaving only the left-hand passage remaining. “Hurry, before he cuts us off!” Anne yelled, and she sped forward.

  Cat ran after her and grabbed her arm just after they both entered the passage. He looked at the oblong door they had come through. It did not shut. “He’s not cutting us off,” Cat said, thinking aloud. “He’s leading us this way.”

  “But how does he know where we are?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Cat replied. He can’t be everywhere . . . can he?

  Cat and Anne crept up the passage, both fearing that like some vengeful spirit the Merchant would fly from an unseen crevice and drag them screaming into the sea. Each had drawn a cutlass, but somehow it didn’t seem as though a sword would be effective against such an infamous rogue.

  They walked in silence, following the curving and seemingly endless tunnel until Cat saw something ahead. “Look,” he said. “The tunnel forks again.”

  They hurried forward just in time to see the door to the left branch shut in their faces. “This is impossible.” Anne blew out an angry sigh. “It’s like he’s watching us, only he can’t be.”

  Cat tightened his grip on his sword and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he sighted another one of those strange bored-out holes in the roof of the tunnel. He grabbed Anne by the wrist and pointed his sword to the ceiling.
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br />   “What—” she started to say, but Cat covered her mouth. Then he held a finger to his lips and motioned for her to follow. He led her into the right-hand passage and found it coiling slightly downward.

  After a few moments of walking and scanning the ceiling, Cat stopped and whispered, “He can hear us.”

  Anne’s eyes roamed the passage walls, and Cat explained, “There are openings in the ceiling just prior to every junction or fork in the path. I don’t know how exactly, but our voices must carry to some central place. The Merchant has this place rigged like a gigantic mousetrap.”

  “And we’re the mice,” Anne whispered. “What do we do?”

  “Follow me,” Cat said. “And don’t make a sound until I do.”

  Being sure to place his boots softly as he walked, Cat crept along the passage until they came to the next junction of several corridors. He made sure there was a listening hole in the roof, but remained silent. He led Anne over to the opening of the leftmost passage and whispered in her ear, “Hold this door open with all your might.” She looked at Cat curiously.

  Then Cat stepped back into the main passage and stood directly beneath the listening hole. Then he practically yelled, “The path splits three ways. Which one do we take?” Then he raced through the door that Anne held open. Anne let go of the door, and in a matter of seconds, that door, as well as the middle door, slammed shut. “How did you know which way?” Anne asked.

  Cat smiled. “I didn’t know for sure,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I just remembered Scully describing this place like the coils of a conch shell. I figured it’s better to be closer to the outside than the inside.”

  Anne tilted her head slightly and marveled at her friend. Buoyed by Anne’s admiration, Cat said, “Now, let’s go where the Merchant didn’t want us to go.”

  Father Brun saw the motionless, glassy eyes and knew that Scully was dead. How many deaths have my actions in some way caused? Father Brun chastised himself. He laid Brother Dmitri against the cool wall and watched for the huge man’s chest to rise. He could discern no movement, and the shoulder that had been caught in the door was bruised black. The leader of the Brethren had been in many difficult places but none like the Merchant’s insidious undersea stronghold. Here, death seemed to wait around every corner. He grimaced and, with two fingers, closed Scully’s eyes.