Isle of Fire (28 page)

“Darling, are you quite sure you are all right?” he asked. “This is so unlike you.”

“Yes,” Dolphin replied. “I am quite sure I am all right. In fact, I have a clarity of mind that I have been lacking for too long.”

Blake didn't know what to make of that. “Will you not tell me what you are going to do?”

“Brand, my husband”—she said, taking his hands and fixing his eyes with her own—“have I ever betrayed your trust?”

“No,” he replied. “No, of course not.”

“Then trust me now.” She kissed him and walked to the door.

Even Hopper stared after her. But just before Dolphin closed the door, she said, “Rest while you may, my husband, and you too, young Hopper. For if my errand is fruitful, this could be a very long night.”

Aboard the British frigate called the
Oxford
, quartermaster Jordan dipped a quill pen into a dark bottle of ink once more and completed his letter. He put the document in an envelope, tilted a candle, spilling wax on the flap, and then sealed it with Commodore Blake's official seal. Just then, there was a knock at his cabin door.

Jordan opened the door. “Mrs. Blake! What are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” she said. “That is, the commodore and I need your help. I don't know where else to turn, and I fear that King George and the Parliament no longer have England's best interests in mind.” Her lower lip trembled, and she looked over her shoulder before she continued. “But what I am going to ask you to do may put you and many of the
Oxford
's crew in the stockade or worse.”

Mr. Jordan ushered her in and closed the door. “Tell me what you have in mind,” he said. “And hurry. Commodore Wetherby is due on board any moment.”

After she told him her plan, he smiled at her and said, “Ma'am, if you only knew how providential your visit is.” He held up the envelope. “In this envelope, I have my resignation from His Majesty's Royal Navy. But . . . I think I'll hold off on this for just a while.”

“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.