Isle of Fire by Wayne Thomas Batson

the day when we might burst forth from seclusion and reclaim what has been stolen from us.”
    â€œLord Hrothgar,” said Thorne, letting the chain of his weapon fall a link at a time into the handle, “today is that day.”
    Hrothgar nodded, slowly at first, then with greater and greater conviction. The warriors in the chamber began to pound their fists to their chests and stamp their feet. They began to sing in their language, and even to Mr. Teach and the other sailors who knew nothing of that tongue, it sounded like an anthem or a call to arms.
    Hrothgar raised his arms for silence and said to Thorne, “To do what you propose, we must wage the war of all wars. The British have become a force to be reckoned with.”
    Thorne screwed the spiked head back onto his bleeding stick and said, “I have a plan for the British.”

10

CHASING GHOSTS

    T horne’s gone back to Dominica?” said Ross.
    Stede’s only reply was a long, exasperated sigh. His hands never left the ship’s wheel, and he stared straight ahead at the sparkling blue sea.
    â€œIf this wind keeps up, we could make it to Roseau by sundown.” Ross wrung his beard between thumb and fingers and stared at his quartermaster. “Well, are you going to answer me?”
    â€œDeclan,” said Stede, “what do ya want from me, mon? For the last six months, we b’ sailing all over the Caribbean. Trinidad, Rogue’s Cay, Death’s Head Island—we been to them all and not a sign of that outrageous mon! We b’ wasting time and provisions.”
    â€œIt is not a waste,” Ross argued. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Thorne is still out there somewhere. And we have to—”
    Stede interrupted. “Do ya want to know where we can b’ finding Bartholomew Thorne? On New Providence, that b’ where.”
    â€œBut the British have rebuilt the fort,” said Ross, puzzled. “Why would he—”
    Stede shook his head. “Have ya no sense, mon? I said New Providence because that b’ where Thorne’s body lies—in the shallows or strung across a blasted reef. The wave took him, Declan. And we best b’ looking after other concerns . . . rather than chasing ghosts.”
    Ross retied the green bandana around his forehead. “Stede, my friend,” he began, his voice tight and words clipped. “We’ve sailed together a long time. Through storm and cannon fire . . . you’ve always trusted me. I need you to trust me now.”
    â€œI b’ trusting the real Declan Ross,” Stede said. “But ya have not been yerself, mon. And since we left Anne and Cat with the monks, ya b’ warse.”
    â€œBlast it, Stede!” Ross smacked a fist into the palm of his hand. “The sea did not take Bartholomew Thorne. He’s alive. I don’t know how I know. I just do.”
    The two old friends gritted their teeth and looked away from each other. For several awkward moments neither said a thing. Mumbling something about not having enough herbs for the stew, Nubby climbed up the ladder to the quarterdeck. But when he saw the smoldering look on the captain’s face, he quickly disappeared back down the ladder.
    â€œLook,” said Ross, “I know I’ve been hard on you and the crew. I know we’re all worn down to the edge. But think of Abigail. Think of Midge and Cromwell. Their blood—and that of hundreds of others—is on Thorne’s hands. If there’s a chance he’s still out there, we’ve got to find him.”
    Stede nodded, but said nothing.
    â€œJust sail us to Dominica,” Ross implored. “Then I’ll give us all a nice long break.”
    Stede’s dark brow lowered, and he turned to face his captain. “Not good enough,” he said. “I’ll sail us to Roseau, but then ya b’ needin’ to give up this mad chase once and for all. No more talking about