Isle of Fire (7 page)

Cat leaned forward, his chin nearly over the candle's flame. “But you said,
until now
. Now we can get him?”

“You've made your decision,” said Father Brun. “You said
we
.”

Cat hesitated, realizing his mistake. “Well . . . no, what I meant was,
you
can get him now?” Father Brun smiled and studied Cat like a sea chart.

“We have a member of the Brethren secreted among Edmund Scully's crew,” Father Brun explained. “Scully is sort of a go-between. He seems to have connections everywhere and exploits them for the highest bidder. He has provided information for many pirates, as well as foreign governments. The Brethren recently discovered that Scully once kept watch on the British for your father—”

“My father?” Cat echoed. He could not remember meeting anyone named Scully. “Would I know this Scully? Would I recognize him?”

“Only you can answer,” said Father Brun. “You may have a chance. Scully now gathers information for the Merchant. Unfortunately, our spy inside Scully's crew became compromised, and he had to flee. But . . . not before learning a few of Scully's regular haunts. Saint Vincent, Inagua, Jamaica—we will scour those islands until we find Scully. And then we will force Scully to take us to the Merchant.”

“But what if Scully won't?” Cat asked. “The Merchant doesn't sound very forgiving.”

“I have been praying about this for some time,” Father Brun admitted. “If greed motivates Edmund Scully as it seems to, the Brethren certainly possesses enough treasure to make his information worth the risk. But if not through riches . . . there are other ways. Cat, you must understand . . . it may be our best and only chance to stop the Merchant's dark influence on history. For the Merchant is growing old, and he will soon choose his next apprentice. We must get him before he does.” A gust of wind thrust open the shutters. Lightning flashed in the distance, bathing vaporous shreds of clouds in purple and blue.

“A storm is coming,” said Father Brun.

Cat stared out onto the dark sea. “And that's not all,” he said, pointing. “It's the
Robert Bruce
.”

Father Brun watched for the next flash, saw the sails of a tall ship, and said, “Cat, the time for your decision has come.”

Father Brun and the monks had prepared a special banquet in the Brethren's dining hall for Declan Ross and his senior crew members. Cat, seated between his captain and the leader of the Brethren, felt like a mooring line stretched between two drifting ships. Father Brun had agreed to give Cat one last night to make the decision, and the tension was relentless.

“Ha-ha!” Jacques St. Pierre cackled proudly from the end of the table. “The look on this man's face—the man we caught that day in Bristol—what was his name again?”

“Fremont,” said Red Eye as if he'd heard the story a hundred times.

“Oui, Fremont, that was it. The look on his face when I lit the fuse, and he could not snuff it out—that was, how you say . . . priceless!”

“He stole the wrong barrel!” said Jules, his voice so deep the silverware rattled.

“Actually,” said St. Pierre, “Fremont stole the right barrel. It was full of grain, not black powder. But Fremont did not know this. Ha-ha!”

Even Red Eye had not heard that part of the tale. “You put a fuse in a barrel full of grain?”

“I put fuses in everything, ha-ha!” To emphasize the point, St. Pierre held up his arm and showed all that a small length of hemp-fuse stuck out of his sleeve.

“You shouldn't be so careless with explosives,” said Red Eye. The unfortunate accident with black powder that scarred the left side of his face also rendered his left eye blind, its pupil permanently colored dark red.

“You've never told me,” said Ross, “how did you know Fremont had taken a grain barrel and not the black powder?”

“It is élémentaire, mon capitaine. I carve a letter ‘B' on the side of every barrel that contains explosives.”

“Ah,” said Jules. “‘B' for black powder.”

“No, my gigantic friend, ‘B' as in BOOM!!”

Cat absently shoved a little bean around his plate with a fork.
How can I abandon them?
Cat wondered.
They're my friends.
The bean skittered off the plate, so Cat went after a wedge of apple.
More than friends—they saved my life.
He recalled the day Anne had found him. He had been bloodied, wounded near to death, left alone on the island to die. At Anne's insistence, Jules had carried Cat to safety.

Anne.
Cat stared across the table at her. Her long crimson hair swirled over her shoulder and across her neck as she playfully bickered with Red Eye and Jules. Her hazel eyes flashed with intensity even as she pretended to threaten Red Eye with a fork. The word
friend
didn't quite cover what Cat felt for Anne. He wasn't sure he knew of a word that would. But to leave the
Bruce
meant leaving her, and something about that thought twisted the pit of Cat's stomach. Anne looked up at him, but the instant their eyes met she turned demurely away.
Twist.
Cat's stomach continued to churn, as it would until late that evening.

“Ah!” Cat growled and thumped the mug on the table. The candle teetered. He caught it just before it fell and held it so that some melted wax would dribble into the holder. Then he reinserted the candle and . . . exhaled. He'd almost lost control again—AGAIN! Cat shook his head and looked up at the ceiling.
What's happening
to me?
he wondered. He cleared his mind as best he could. He needed clarity of thought tonight of all nights.

If only there was some compromise
, he thought . . .
some way to stay
with the
Bruce
and help out the Brethren
. But he knew that Ross's plan was to coordinate the Wolf fleet with Commodore Blake. So there was no way to . . . Cat stood up so abruptly his chair fell over. He looked out the window. It was late, and Cat had no idea if Father Brun might still be up.
But what about Ross, would he agree
to—? No, first things first.

Cat grabbed the candle, slowly opened the chamber door, and quietly stole out into the hall. He passed by several doors, each leading to rooms occupied by his friends from the
Bruce
, but he could not stop there. Not yet. So Cat stealthily made his way through the corridors of the Citadel until he came at last to Father Brun's chamber. He was surprised to see light beneath his door. Cat knocked once lightly on the door, and Father Brun said, “Come in.”

Cat opened the door and found Father Brun sitting at a small round table. He had several candles lit—one on the table, one on the windowsill, and several on various shelves. There was a second chair at the table. It was turned invitingly toward the door. Father Brun had a book open in front of him and did not look up. He said, “I thought you might be along about now.”

“I couldn't sleep,” Cat said as he eased in and pulled the door shut.

“No,” said Father Brun. “I expect not.” He motioned for Cat to sit down.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Father Brun not looking up from the pages and Cat not knowing how to begin. At last, Father Brun said, “The Holy Scriptures tell of a young man named Samuel who heard a voice calling his name. He went to his master and said, ‘I am here. What do you want?' But his master said he did not call. This happened twice more—a voice calling Samuel's name, but Samuel's master saying it was not him. But Samuel's master had an idea who might be calling . . .” Father Brun looked at Cat expectantly.

“God?”

The monk nodded. “People do not always recognize the call of God when they first hear it. He does not always choose to speak with a voice. For some, the call is a felt passion for service. Powerful—even tragic—events seem to conspire against some others until, at last, they stop running and surrender. That was how it was with me. I would turn to the left, but something occurred inexplicably and closed that road. I'd turn to the right and find hardship behind every door. It was only then, exhausted of my own stubborn will, that I said, ‘Yes, Lord.' I wonder, Cat, is that what you've come to do?”

Cat hesitated. “I . . . I don't think I can join the Brethren.”

If Father Brun was troubled by Cat's answer, he did not show it. “But?”

“But I will sail for you if . . .”

“If?”

Cat took a deep breath. “I will sail for the Brethren, captain one of your ships, and help you catch the Merchant if . . . if Anne can sail with me.”

Father Brun finally showed some surprise. “Anne? Anne Ross, the captain's daughter?” Cat nodded. Father Brun's pale blue eyes narrowed, but then he smiled as if the solution to a complex sum had just become clear. “She is very fond of you also,” he said. “But can she sail? We could face any type of sea, and the stormy season is not far off.”

“Anne is a brilliant seaman,” Cat said. “Uh, sea-woman . . . person. I mean, she can sail very well. She practically grew up with a ship's wheel in her hand.”

“I do not need to tell you again how dangerous this journey will be.”

“Anne can take care of herself. She's smart and good with a sword. I'd make her my quartermaster.”

Father Brun drummed his fingers on the book. “You must first seek permission from her father,” he said.

“You . . . you mean Anne may come? She may sail with me?”

“If Declan Ross permits it, I will accept it as God's will.”

Cat had rapped softly on Captain Ross's door several times and had heard nothing. He felt foolish and somewhat suspicious standing in the darkness outside the door. What would other members of the Brethren think if they found him out slinking around so late? Cat tried again, knocking harder than he meant to.

“Stede,” came Ross's sleepy grumble from inside. “This had better be blasted important!”

“It's Cat, sir.”

The door opened and there stood Declan Ross, squinting and blinking. “Cat?” he said. “It's rather late.”

Cat had never seen the captain of the
Robert Bruce
look so bedraggled. His coppery corona of hair stood in some places and bent wildly in others. His beard was nearly twisted in a knot, and his shirt and breeches looked like they'd been balled up before Ross put them on.

Cat resisted the urge to smile and said, “I'm sorry, Captain, but this couldn't wait anymore.”

Ross opened the door wide for Cat. The captain wondered what could be so important that it had to be said in the middle of the night. It had to be something rather private, else Cat could have mentioned it at dinner. Whatever it was, it didn't feel like good news. Ross lit a candle and brought it over to a square table near the window. When he and his visitor were seated, he said, “What's this about, Cat?”

Cat squirmed a little in his chair. “Well, sir, I've really learned a great deal about sailing from you and the crew of the
Bruce
.”