Isle of Fire by Wayne Thomas Batson Page A

Thorne, no more goin’ to his old haunts—ya hear? No more of it. Oh, and we b’ take that nice long break too. Antigua’s nice this time of year. Them’s my terms, Declan.”
    â€œI’ll take them,” Ross said, and the two shook on it. “But, Stede . . . if we do get word of Thorne . . . if we do find him . . .”
    Stede sputtered out a laugh. “Then, mon, I b’ sailing with ya through a hurricane to catch him . . . if that b’ what it takes.”

    The wind hadn’t stayed quite as strong, so the Robert Bruce was still several hours from Dominica as the sun began to set. “A sail!” called Kalik from the crow’s-nest. “There be a sail southeast!” Kalik had many talents, but his sharp vision earned him the job of lookout. “Captain?” Mr. Hack called from the deck.
    Ross lowered his spyglass. “A galleon,” he said. “It looks French. Let’s go get him.”
    â€œAye, sir!” Hack flexed his forearms and cracked his knuckles loud enough for Ross to hear it up on the quarterdeck. Then Hack was gone, barking orders for more sail and for men to get to the cannons.
    Red Eye was running for the hatch when Ross called down, “Red Eye, tell Jacques I need him up here.”
    â€œYes, sir,” answered Red Eye.
    â€œAnd you’ll handle the cannon decks, won’t you?”
    Red Eye grinned and disappeared below deck. If it came to a fight, Ross hoped that Red Eye wouldn’t get too carried away. The sixty-gun Robert Bruce was a potent weapon in the hands of a skilled artillery man. Red Eye was as skilled as they came—lethal more often than not—and Ross wanted to question the crew of the ship they were chasing, not watch them burn and sink below the surface. That was why, most times, Ross preferred Jacques St. Pierre to oversee the cannons. Of course, allowing Jacques to work with explosives was another kind of risk.
    The Bruce ’s sails filled, and the ship quickly ate up the distance between it and the galleon. “Him b’ running,” said Stede. “Him b’ one foolish mon.”
    â€œWhere is Saint Pierre?” Ross asked.
    â€œHere!” A curly head of dark hair appeared at the ladder. St. Pierre, wearing a gentleman’s frock coat and a tricorn hat, clambered the rest of the way up. He landed atop the quarterdeck and gave a slight bow. “Did you call, mon capitaine?”
    â€œQuite awhile ago, as I recall,” said Ross. “What took you so long?”
    â€œI am sorry, but I had to convince Red Eye not to load thirty cannons.”
    â€œThirty?” Ross exclaimed. “We’re not storming Paris!”
    â€œOf course, I know this,” replied Jacques. “But Red Eye, he is—how you say—ridiculous! He wants to blow the ship out of the water. But I used my extraodinary negotiating skills and changed his mind.”
    â€œAnd what did you decide?”
    â€œTwenty cannons.”
    Ross shook his head. The galleon continued to try to run, but it was heavy, loaded down with some merchandise, perhaps gold. Another time and Declan Ross would have been licking his lips at the prospect of looting this fat vessel. But not this time. “Raise the standard!” Ross yelled.
    The wolf and claymore rose high up on the mast. Every time Ross saw it, pride swelled within. Stede, caught in the lust of the chase, grinned like a schoolboy. But the chase would not last much longer. No sooner had the Bruce ’s flag gone up than the galleon lowered its sails and slowed to a crawl. Soon it had stopped altogether.
    Stede brought the Bruce up alongside. “Red Eye!” Ross called. “Have the cannons ready if they try anything!”
    â€œAye, Captain!”
    Ross went to the rail on the quarterdeck. He saw the name of the vessel. “ Le Vichy ,” he said to himself. He turned to St. Pierre. “That