Isle of Fire (42 page)

His long fingernails scraped across the cell bars. “Awaken, young Griffin,” said the Merchant. “Your destiny calls for you.”

Cat lay on a cot at the far end of the cell. “Leave me be!” he yelled.

“No . . . ,” said the Merchant. “If I did what you ask, you'd be dead already. Your father is quite set on your fate, I'm afraid. But I believe that Bartholomew, in his willfulness, lacks vision. He looks at you and sees nothing worth saving. I look at you and see history in the making. Think on that, Cat . . . history!”

“History in blood,” Cat snapped back.

“Ever it has been,” replied the Merchant. “Every king, every queen—even Scotland's beloved Robert the Bruce—had to splash a little blood to remake the world. The British, the French, the Spanish together have waged war upon war, spilling enough blood to fill the river upon which we sail.”

“That's different,” said Cat, his anger building. He got up and went near to the bars. “That's war.”

“Is it?” The Merchant laughed. “And why do these nations fight? Over thrones, over tariffs, over plots of land? They merely want to stake a claim in this world. And that, lad . . . is precisely what we are doing. Tonight, Cat, in just a few hours, the world will change again. There'll be a new ship to sail, and I'm offering you the wheel.”

Cat's arms shot through the bars, and before he knew it, Cat had one hand grasping the Merchant's cloak, the other hand clutching the Merchant's throat. Cat felt a sharp prick at his stomach and realized the Merchant's dagger was poised to stab him in the gut. Cat slowly released his grip. “You see,” said the Merchant, “you were born a man of passion, born a man of action. Violence is a means to an end, that's all. And you are a master of violence.”

The Merchant went to leave the cell deck, but hesitated a moment at the first step. “We will talk again soon . . . after London burns. But the choice is simple: rule the world as you see fit . . . or die knowing what might have been. Either way . . . much blood will be shed.”

The fireworks display had humble beginnings. Three shots left the barge in the middle of the harbor—
Whump, whump, whump!
—and raced into the night sky. Hundreds of feet above the Thames and the hundred-plus ships anchored there, the shells burst into sparkling tendrils of blue, red, and white. A collective roar of approval came from the people gathered on the docks, on shore, and on the ships.

Having removed their hats and unbuttoned their vests, commodores and captains sat down on the decks to watch the show with the men they commanded. Each had a mug or tankard in hand and a barrel not too far away, for this night was made for celebration, not circumstance. Even King George watched the display. He reclined in a chair atop the gatehouse of St. James Palace while a platoon of servants brought him assorted beverages and delicacies. King George wanted to be sure the fireworks display had been worth the gold he'd spent.

And it truly was. Soon the sky over the Port of London was ablaze with sparkling majesty. Rockets streaked into the night, exploded with deafening thunder, and rained blinking flashes of color. Huge blossoms of purple and gold bloomed overhead, and whistling white comets raced this way and that.

Closest to the fireworks barge, Commodore James Hawthorne stood on the deck of the one hundred-gun ship
Gallant
and raised his tankard in salute of an especially fine series of rockets. Sunbursts of orange, red, and yellow fanned out in all directions, some seeming to come right toward his ship.

Hawthorne lowered his tankard and started to yell, but it was too late. The deck of the
Gallant
flashed red as something burst overhead. Fire rained down from above, igniting the masts and bundled sails. Hawthorne and a dozen of his men were killed instantly from the incinerating heat. Others were bathed in liquid fire and dove overboard only to die horribly as the water could not immediately quench the flames.

Something had gone dreadfully wrong with the fireworks display, most thought, as fiery shells exploded again and again right above the ships. Already ten vessels were ablaze, their crews leaping overboard or burned alive. Shrieks of terror went up from ship and shore, and all looked to the fireworks barge and wondered when the barrage might end. Yet the rockets from the barge continued to go up, continued to burst like flashes of lightning high in the sky. And in those flickers of light, the people of London finally saw . . . finally understood. For in those intermittent white flashes, sails appeared in the distance. Hundreds of sails. The mouth of the harbor teemed with rows of attacking ships—ominous, shadowy vessels erupting with cannon fire.

Fiery projectiles ignited the ships trapped in the river creating a floating inferno. And soon, the enemy's projectiles began to burst above the shore, raining fire on multitudes of screaming, fleeing people. As the invading ships grew nearer, they fired their cannon shots deeper into the city. Wooden buildings were engulfed in seconds. Fire trickled down stone turrets and columns and danced on brick battlements. Mantled by the blackest clouds of smoke and mirrored in the now-turbulent waters of the Thames, brilliant white flames flared and turned angry red as they reached a hundred feet into the air.

Not since the great fire of 1666 had the city endured such a conflagration. But the Great Fire of London that claimed 80 percent of the city in 1666 was not nearly as deadly as this one. Then people had warning and fled into the highlands or in boats into the Thames. This attack, there was no warning, and the river offered no escape.

The British ships that were not abandoned opened fire, as did the cannon batteries on shore. But their shots were rushed and poorly aimed. Few found their mark.

“Hit them again!” Thorne ordered, his voice thick and raspy. “Brandir, signal the fleet.”

“But, sir,” said Brandir, “we must save some for the monks.”

“Monks?” Guthrum harrumphed. “Christians? They will fall easier than Västervik!”

“Still,” said Thorne, thoughtfully rubbing the scar on his hand. “I will not underestimate them . . . especially since I do not know their defenses. Brandir, signal one more volley with the dragon necks. But keep our other cannons firing. Blast their vaunted navy to splinters!”

Brandir left his post at the starboard rail and raced to the poop deck. There, he unhooded three lanterns: a yellow, a white, and a red. First, he held up the white and waited for the next ship in line to signal likewise. Then he held up the red lantern once, followed by three quick bobs with the yellow lantern. The signal went from ship to ship around the fleet, and Thorne's commands were followed.

“Mister Teach, go down below decks!” Thorne commanded. “I want our guests to see their city burn.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Guthrum, ready the Berserkers,” Thorne commanded. “I want you to lead them into the city. Take the palace, and bring me the king's head.”

The massive Raukar warrior's eyes gleamed. He drew his cold blade and exclaimed, “HRAH!”

Finally, Hopper had a chance. All but two of the guards had left the cell deck to watch the action unfolding topside. Hopper had hidden himself between stacks of crates close to the ladder up to the next deck. He'd been waiting for one of the remaining two guards to move close enough. And at last, one did. Hopper had never done anything like this before. Even during his occupation of the English fort at New Providence, Hopper had never harmed anyone to get what he needed. But this was different. Hopper couldn't fight them, and he needed their keys. So Hopper clutched the small plank he'd found in a scrap pile on the third deck. He aimed for the back of the soldier's head and prayed he had enough strength to knock the man out.

WHACK!
Hopper hit the guard as hard as he'd ever hit anything in his life. The man groaned and fell in a heap by the crates. The second he struck, Hopper ducked back in the shadows. The other guard came running and bent over his fallen comrade. Swinging the board like he used to swing an axe to split wood, Hopper unleashed another powerful blow—this time on the crown of the surprised guard's head. The man fell without a sound—right on top of the other guard.

Hopper was out of his crevice like a shot. He didn't know if more guards were just outside of the room and on their way. Hopper grabbed the guard's keys and ran to the cell where Lady Dolphin stood at the bars. “Hopper!” she exclaimed.

From two cells down, Commodore Blake said, “Of all the unlooked-for . . . Hopper, we thought you'd been killed.”

“Nay, Guv'nor,” said Hopper. “I'm a slippery one.”

“You are at that,” said Dolphin, embracing him as soon as her cell was open. They worked the keys in Blake's cell door, and soon he was free as well.

“C'mon, Guv'nor, my lady,” urged Hopper. “There's a balcony window in the captain's quarters, and he ain't there.”

“Hopper,” Blake said with admiration. “You've been in Thorne's quarters?”

“Yeah,” he replied, enjoying their respect. “I've been all over the ship looking for you two. Now, c'mon. They'll be coming for us, and that no mistake.”

“A moment.” Blake took the swords from the two fallen guards and handed one to Dolphin. “I have a feeling we might be needing these.”

The first thing Edward Teach saw when he entered the cell deck was a blur of motion at the other end of the deck. Then he saw the two guards out cold. Last, he saw the empty cells. Teach had no idea how the two captives had managed their escape, but he had the certain feeling that it would be his own head rolling if he didn't get them back.

Teach thought frantically.
Where would they go? To the cutters? No, not with fifty crewmen on deck. That would be suicide.
He thought they might try to duck out of a cannon bay, but again . . . so many guards. Teach's mouth dropped open. There was one place they could escape from.
Yes
, Teach thought.
That has to be
where they've gone.