Chapter 18
Hawke had vowed never to set foot on Isla de Plata again. And yet, here he was, standing on the blasted rocks of the blasted island with both his blasted feet.
The shore of the inlet was hardly more than a smaller pile of rocks between two cliffs.
A ravine thick with foliage led inland with a stream running through the rocks at the bottom.
Hawke hoped the ravine continued to rise steadily.
If it ended, or if the drop became steep, they would need to scale the cliffs—something he was not keen to attempt.
He’d climbed a short way ahead of the crew, finding a ledge that at least gave him a flat surface to stand on.
He looked out to sea. Calypso’s Quest bobbed offshore in the choppy water. He didn’t like leaving the ship so exposed, especially windward without a harbor or a bay, but he had no other choice.
He turned his attention to the crew on the rocks below.
Grieg was supervising the storing of the jolly boats.
There was not a beach where they could lay them away or even a tree to tie them to, and so the men had carried and dragged the small vessels as far up the ravine as the boatswain deemed necessary to avoid high tide.
Finding a flat surface on the rocky cliffs large enough for the boats was close to impossible, and in the end, the crew braced the vessels with props to prevent them from becoming dislodged.
The crash of waves and the shrieks of seabirds muted the crew’s voices. Foliage rustled in the wind, and water trickled through the rocks. The combination of sounds should have been calming, but on this island, the noises were unsettling. On this island, everything felt unsettling.
Lady Annabelle carried a pair of oars, stepping carefully over the loose rocks and driftwood.
Hawke’s heart contracted as he watched her.
He had been frightened a good number of times in his life, but bringing this woman to this island caused a terror in him that he would not have believed possible.
His mind was flooded with sce-narios. She could fall from a cliff, step into a pit of vipers, become lost in the thick jungle .
. . and that was not even taking into account the threat of the mysterious sickness or Blackham’s men.
Leviathan’s sailors were renowned for their ruthless attacks.
If their captain gave the order, they would not hesitate to cut down Calypso’s Quest’s entire crew.
Blackham’s own notoriety had been earned by his penchant for creative tortures and cruel deaths.
Even the fiercest pirates avoided his crew.
But for a woman . . . her fate would be so much worse.
Hawke closed his eyes and forced his breathing to calm.
The crew continued hauling boats and shifting rocks. Lady Annabelle returned to the shore for more oars.
If Hawke hadn’t known he was in love with Lady Annabelle Bradford before, her actions at the crew’s assembly that morning had extinguished any doubt.
It seemed impossible that she was the same woman who’d looked him over with such arrogance and distaste in the prison governor’s office.
He’d thought she was beautiful then, but seeing her standing high on the crate, wind blowing her hair wild, sword drawn and raised as she rallied the crew, had completely transfixed him.
His heart had pounded to the point of becoming painful, and he’d worried that his lungs had quit working entirely.
If only she were not a noblewoman, if only he were not a nobody—or worse, a buccaneer, a criminal.
He knew this voyage was not reality. The pair had been thrust together by circumstance, but it did not matter that something had grown between them—at least on his part.
Because no matter the outcome of this mission, in a few months, this would all end, and Hawke and Lady Annabelle would go their separate ways.
She would return to London and live out her days with a rich husband in a grand house, and Hawke would remain at sea, plundering, fighting.
Nothing would be different, and yet somehow, everything had changed.
Following Grieg’s direction, Lady Annabelle put the oars into one of the boats. She straightened, shaking her hair out of her face and looked around the ravine. Her gaze lit on Hawke, and she smiled, starting up toward him.
He resisted the urge to descend and assist her; if there was one thing he’d learned about this woman, it was that she preferred to do things herself.
The loose rocks were difficult to walk on, their smooth surfaces slick, and Hawke watched closely, ready to help if she should fall.
Where had she gotten those boots? They were clearly too large for her feet. She could easily roll an ankle.
Once the boats were positioned to the boatswain’s approval, supplies were gathered, and the crew started up the ravine.
Making certain Lady Annabelle was close behind him, Hawke led the way. The path was steep, but the ravine blocked the wind and shaded them from the sun. And aside from an occasional boulder impeding the path, they met with no obstacles.
After nearly an hour of climbing, the crew emerged onto a rocky knoll.
They were far enough inland that they couldn’t hear the surf.
The lack of waves beneath his feet always disoriented Hawke for hours after he disembarked.
The ground felt as if it were moving, and Hawke couldn’t stand still without swaying.
He noticed a few of the other men swaying as well.
Some, he knew, would feel dizzy, or even ill.
But the sensations would pass soon enough.
The humidity in the air combined with the exertion of the climb left Hawke drenched in sweat.
He took off his coat, hoping the wind would dry his shirt before nightfall.
Murray brought a waterskin freshly filled from the creek, and Hawke savored the taste of the sweet water.
After months in a barrel, the ship’s drinking water had become very unappealing.
Lady Annabelle sat on a rock, fanning herself with a large leaf. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was rubbing her calves.
Hawke took her the waterskin. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, thanking him. “A bit sore,” she said, sipping the water. “But nothing to cause worry.”
As they waited for the rest of the crew to reach the top, Shadbolt joined Hawke.
“There will be no moon tonight,” the first mate said. “We should find a camp. And soon.”
Hawke nodded. The last thing he wanted was for his crew to wander about the jungle in the dark. “Send a party inland to search for a campsite. Another can go in search of fruit.”
They made camp in a clearing beside a wall of rock. Steep drops fell away on two sides of the clearing, giving a view of much of the island, while the other was bordered by the jungle.
Grieg and Murray opened the sacks of supplies, and Lady Annabelle helped them serve the hardtack and dried beef to the crew. Thank goodness they’d found fresh fruit to supplement the bleak meal.
The men took their rations, gathering in groups throughout the clearing to eat. There was an air of unease, and the men spoke in low voices, often glancing toward the darkness of the jungle.
Hawke sat with his back against the stone, listening to Grieg tell of an encounter with a mermaid on an island outside of Charleston. The boatswain seemed to be attempting to lighten the heavy mood.
“She sang to me,” Grieg said in a dreamy voice. “Lured me with her song until I was away from the camp, away from the ship, all alone, and still she sang. Such a voice. Unnatural it was.”
“Aye, and when a man’s had too much o’ the drink, even a seabird’s call sounds like a mermaid’s song,” Murray said.
The crew laughed, and Hawke chuckled along with them. He cracked the husk of a chenette and peeled it away, taking a bite. The fleshy fruit inside was sweet and tart, and Hawke had barely finished chewing before he grabbed another.
“She was real,” Grieg said. “She swam in the rocky pools of the shore. Likely, the poor creature was trapped when the tide went out. She was beautiful.” He sighed. “Long hair floating in the water, glowing in the moonlight.”
“Jes’ like seaweed,” Li Chen said, drawing out another round of laughter from the men.
“Do you think I can’t tell the difference between hair and seaweed?” Grieg growled.
“Not when ye’ve half a bottle of rum in ye,” Murray said.
Hawke put another chenette in his mouth, not realizing until he bit down that he’d mistakenly taken a cherry.
The juice filled his mouth, and he shuddered.
He’d never liked cherries, and he’d been one of the few who’d avoided them when they’d come to the island before.
It wasn’t until much later on the voyage home that he’d eaten any at all.
His stomach contracted painfully as if the taste had triggered a -memory—
Hawke spit out the fruit as the realization hit him.
“Don’t eat the cherries!” he said to the crew.
Could it actually be this simple? “They may be the cause of the sickness.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hoping none of the juice had gone down his throat.
He remembered how delighted the crew of The Good Will had been when they’d discovered trees heavy with the fruit.
Most had feasted on the cherries, but Hawke had preferred chenettes and mangoes.
“I’ve already eaten some,” one of the crewmembers said in a nervous voice.
Hawke stood, wiping his mouth again, trying to banish the taste. “I may be wrong,” he said. “But if not, you have the remedy.”
He picked up the waterskin and took a drink, rinsing the cherry juice from his mouth.
The crew dispersed, repacking the food and readying the camp for night. Any distraction Grieg’s story had provided was gone, extinguished by Hawke’s warning. His worries about the dangers ahead returned.
Lady Annabelle left the group and made her way toward one of the cliffs that bordered the camp. She stood, looking out over the mountains of the island.