Cerulean Isle (16 page)
“There were two men from a trade company here not long ago.”
“I’ve met them. Tell me, what did you find unusual about them?”
Worry formed on the barmaid’s face. “I’m not comfortable saying so, really.”
I reached into my pocket and took out ten reales. I placed them in her hand. “Tell me. It’s important.”
“I overheard one of them talking business. I hear all sorts of conversations, you know. Well, this man was telling a horrible story. He spoke of Curacao and said it has become a dangerous place over the last ten years. He mentioned something about an old pirate leader named Shivley, Shortley…no that’s not it…”
“Shanley?”
“That’s right. Shanley.”
The image of Captain James Shanley’s dead body dangling off the starboard bow of the
Obsidian
flashed in my mind.
She looked over her shoulder to be sure no one was listening to our conversation. “He said some terrible men murdered Shanley and his son ten years ago. Everyone in Curacao prospered from Shanley’s fortune in those days…at least, so said the trader.”
“What else did he say?”
“That the death of Shanley started a decline in their society. They had no leader and no protection. Crime fell upon Curacao as swiftly as a September hurricane. Raiders came often to sack what remained of Shanley’s empire. Curacao did its best to fight back, but they were no match for the pirates. The fighting and pillaging eventually ceased, but the chaos had repercussions.”
“What kind of repercussions?”
“Criminals escaped. During the largest of the raids roughly eight years ago, Curacao’s main prison was ambushed and blown open. The worst criminals to ever plague the Caribbean were set free. Thieves, pirates, assassins, and arsonists fled the island. These prisoners were all supposed to be executed in due time, but the government of Curacao is notoriously slow in this matter.
“The man from the trade company said that he hated stopping in Curacao. The harbor of Willemstad is full of beggars and thieves. He said that one thief routinely targeted their ship. They did nothing to stop him for one reason.”
“What reason is that?” I coughed and sipped my tea.
“The thief matches the description of a madman who escaped the prison. He is a criminal so cunning and ruthless that they decided to let him steal from their stock for fear that he would kill them.”
“Let me guess,” I insisted. “This madman stowed away on their ship and is now in Grenada?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
I coughed again and replied, “Their representatives blurted something about their problems with stowaways.” I sipped my tea. “One last question, miss. Have you seen a red-haired man tonight, probably as wet as I am?”
As I finished the question, the door to the tavern swung open, and Grant hurried in and rushed over with a look of concern.
“Did you find him?” I asked just above a whisper.
“I searched the town high and low, before I realized our folly. He’s not in the town or the harbor. He’s not in the market or pubs, neither hiding along the roads, or in a hovel on the beach. The jungle is not safe in a storm like this, so what is the one place that we didn’t look?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Rosewing.”
I almost spat up my tea.
“I rode back to our farm as quickly as I could,” Grant continued. “Let me ask you, did you leave a lantern burning in your room?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. We found him. Now let’s go get him.”
~~~~~~
Grant was right. A yellow light burned from my window. We paused on the front porch to form a plan.
“Where are Martin and Anna?” I asked.
“They should be asleep. It’s about the time when they turn in. Look there.” Grant pointed. “Their room is dark and the curtains are drawn.”
“I hope no harm has come to them.”
“Don’t think that way, Jacob. So how do you want to handle this?”
“I’ll go in, grab a sword from the wall in the parlor, and corner him in my room. You’ll wait under the window in case he decides to jump.”
Grant slipped through the shadows with the finesse of the finest thief. I entered the manor with tender footfalls. I went to the parlor and took a long, sharp cutlass off the wall.
I came to Martin and Anna’s room and quietly opened the door. They were safe and asleep in their bed. I moved on through the hall. Outside the door to my room, I heard the shifting of feet on the floorboards. With my sword readied, I kicked open the door. “Stop where you stand, vagabond!” I commanded with my blade’s tip pointed at him.
He stood behind my desk in tattered, gray clothing. His stabbing brown eyes lifted slowly and met mine. He was not scared of me and didn’t even acknowledge the sword in my hand. He stood like a man who had ventured to the farthest regions of hell and back, a man of cunning and control.
The nostrils under his crooked nose flared and a strange smile began to form. I could count the remaining teeth with one hand and have fingers left over. The lines on his face were deep and shadowy in the lantern light.
“Come away from the desk,” I ordered.
“First it is ‘stop where I stand,’ and now you order me to move? Which will it be?” His voice was dry and his words were well pronounced. He seemed entertained by me.
“Do not mock me. Do as I say.”
“Mockery is such a motivating thing. Don’t you think?”
I did not reply. He stepped away from the desk.
“I was getting worried about you, good Lord of Rosewing.” He stood in front of my desk, caring naught for the deadly steel in my hand. “That storm was merciless, as they all tend to be in their own way. Just like men.”
“If you desire mercy from me, stranger, you’ll be silent and make your way downstairs. There, you will answer my questions.”
“Good. And you shall answer mine.” His eyes glanced at my cutlass. “You can lower your blade. As you can see, I am unarmed and outnumbered. You can order the other Lord of Rosewing to come back inside now. I yield, Jacob.”
“How do you know my name?”
His strange smile widened. “I know
everything
about you. And you know
everything
about me.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you?”
“I guess you could say I am a writer. You have my masterwork among your books.” He held out his hand for me to shake. “My name is Owen. It is an honor to meet the man who bested Jean L’Ollon.”
Chapter 27
An Important Message
Grant and I escorted our intruder to the parlor. I kept my sword readied. Our unwanted guest looked around the room. His eyes touched the rows of books, the vases of flowers, the blazing fireplace and shelf of wine, ale, and rum.
I lifted the tip of my cutlass to enforce my words. “You say your name is Owen, that you are the author of that old journal. How will you prove this?”
“Proof? Aye.” He began to disrobe. He tore off his stained shirt and then his ragged pants. “Here.” He pointed to his left arm, revealing a deep scar just above his bicep. “And here.” A similar scar was in the middle of his left thigh. “Permanent remembrances of Shanley’s pistol. One shot bested me while on Darien soil, the other in Shanley’s private quarters.”
I lowered my sword and held out my hand. “Welcome to Rosewing.”
~~~~~~
We presented our guest with a small feast: a steaming bowl of potatoes, carrots, and chicken with another dish of fruit, golden rolls, and a tall mug of fresh milk. Owen ate slowly and savored every bite.
“You have truly strengthened me. I am in your debt.”
“You can repay me,” I replied, “by telling me why you’ve come here.”
“You are as impatient and as passionate as they told me you would be.”
"They? Who are
they?”
“Christoff and Waylin.”
I sat up at once. “Christoff and Waylin, you say?”
“Indeed, Master Jacob. It is under their order that I have come to Grenada. I have come to deliver an important message.”
Grant and I stared at him.
“L’Ollon’s men, the pirates of the
Obsidian,
are coming.” Owen’s eyes burned with urgency. “It is time for you to leave, and you must do so immediately.”
I stood up. “That is preposterous! It’s been ten years. Surely, L’Ollon’s men have been locked up by now.”
“Nay,” Owen said. “They’re already here.”
“What?” Grant asked.
“Who do you think it was that you fought with in the Cod Fish? That was one of them. They are trickling in slowly, Lords of Rosewing. They do this to avoid suspicion. Their numbers are great, and I am certain that on the morrow they will begin their search for the two lads who killed their captain, the two lads who are now two men.”
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. My mind drifted to memories of the long ago days of hardship.
“Past and present clashing like great battleships,” shouted Owen. “Ahoy! And now the adventure goes on. Oh at last, at last!” He laughed and spun around the room. A madman, indeed.
“Enough,” I yelled. Owen stopped dancing and sat at the table. “Tell me, Owen, how did you survive your prison? How did you get free and then come to know Christoff and Waylin?”
“As you know, I was jailed in Curacao after attacking Shanley. One day, while weak from hunger and curled up on the cell floor, Shanley entered and pulled my journal from my feeble arms. I could not fight him. He sifted through the pages, and then took it with him. I imagined he would toss it into a fire and the thought sickened me. I feared that the truth would not survive after I died. I took to eating insects and drinking rain water that dripped into my cell.
“Weeks later, I heard that L’Ollon’s cunning pirates had lured Captain James Shanley from his estate. That Shanley was captured and forced aboard the
Obsidian,
and under its furled sails he and his son were killed. Curacao’s naval fleet tried to overtake the
Obsidian.
They were not fast enough. L’Ollon’s ship sailed away.”
The storm raged over Rosewing. The wind howled, and I could hear the rain beating on the roof. I recalled the barrel room of the
Obsidian
sounding like this at night.
Owen continued. “You can imagine my elation upon learning of Shanley’s ruin. It did not take long for chaos to ensue. Without a leader, Shanley’s precious island became a battlefield. Pirate clans fought over his gold. For two long years, I clung to life in my cell. I watched from my barred window as Willemstad soured.
“One night, a massive fleet raided the island and opened fire on the town. I could see the flashing of distant cannon; the earth quaked as their shots landed. The screaming was endless. The sound of homes being blasted apart still echoes in my ears today. Aye, blasted apart is right, friends. As my luck would have it, a cannonball tore through the wall of my prison. A portion of my cell crumbled, and I was able to squeeze through the crack.
“I hid in the jungle and waited out the merciless raid. The jungle was better for survival than the cell. I found plenty to eat: plants, fruits, and once strong enough, small animals. I built a lean-to in the depths of the jungle and lived there in secret for
Grant interrupted. “I understand your means of survival. Tell us how you came to know Christoff.”
Owen scratched at the stubble covering his cheeks, then leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms. He let out an exaggerated yawn. “All this talk and a stomach full of food have made me tired. Let me rest here, and in the morning I’ll share all the details. I’ve delivered the message, the rest can wait.”
The aroma of hot spices woke me. I entered the dining room to find Grant, Martin, and Anna sitting at the table while Owen poured bowls of steaming soup.
Anna sipped from her bowl. “Tastes wonderful, Owen. Well done!”
Owen greeted me. “Morning, Master Jacob. Stew?”
“You’ve prepared breakfast? Why?” I asked.
Anna came to my side and pulled me toward the table. “Oh, Jacob. Sit and be kind. We woke this morning to our guest working hard on this meal. Join us, please.”
“Yes,” added Martin. “Owen’s been pleasant company. You should’ve waked us last night to meet him. I feel terrible about sleeping while you and Grant made proper introductions.”
Grant smiled. “I wouldn’t say
proper.”
Owen poured a ladle of soup into a clay bowl and handed it to me. “A gesture in hopes that you’ll trust me.” I accepted and sat across from Grant.
The sunlight streamed in through the wide windows. The storm had long since passed and a warm breeze swept in, rustling the curtains. In the distance, I could hear the horses neighing in the barn, anxious to be out in the sunshine. I was eager to know more about Owen. There was still reason for caution. I drank the stew, pushed my empty bowl away, and looked him square in the eyes.
“Continue, Owen. Tell us of your dealings with Christoff and Waylin.”
Owen cleared his throat and began. “There came an evening when a sloop with white sails and blue boot-top docked. This ship caught my eye since it had some unique alterations to its quarterdeck. I decided it was worth taking a closer look. I crept aboard, but I was caught, a cold steel blade pressed against my throat. Under the light of a lantern, I saw that a golden-haired gent held me. His captain, a gray-haired salt, stood scowling at me.
“‘What business do you have aboard my ship?’ asked the gray captain.
“‘The truth it shall be if your mate stays his blade,’ I answered boldly, as always. The captain acquiesced, and the steel came away from my throat. ‘My name, good fellows, is Owen. I am a man of the sea. I escaped from prison five years ago. I make my thieving rounds along the harbor weekly. It is not an honest life, but I have not harmed anyone, at least not for a very long time. Forgive this old beggar’s intrusion.’
“The captain’s brow lifted with intrigue. ‘A former seaman named Owen, once a prisoner and now dwelling in Curacao—tell me, Owen, have you ever written any books?’