“I concur, Grand Master. I should have sailed there myself. One of my slave galleys would be more than capable of making a swift journey.”
“Slave galley?” said Torres, not happy. “Captain, I asked you to divest yourself of that sick institution.”
“I fail to see the difference between enslaving some men and all men,” said Rogers. “Our aim is to steer the entire course of civilization, is it not?”
“A body enslaved inspires the mind to revolt,” said Torres curtly, “but enslave a man’s mind and his body will trot along naturally.”
Rogers conceded. “A fair point, Grand Master.”
Now they had reached the perimeter of the docks, where they stopped at the entrance to a dilapidated warehouse, watching the activities inside the open door. Men seemed to be disposing of bodies, either clearing them from the warehouse or putting them to one side, perhaps for loading onto a cart or ship. Or, what was more likely, tipping them straight into the sea.
Torres asked the question I wanted answered myself. “What has happened here?”
Rogers smiled thinly. “These were men who resisted our generous requests for blood. Pirates and privateers mostly.”
Torres nodded. “I see.”
I tightened at the thought, looked at the bodies, crooked arms and crooked legs, unseeing eyes. Men no different than me.
“I have been using my King’s Pardon as an excuse to collect samples from as many men as possible,” said Rogers. “When they refuse, I hang them. All within the boundaries of my mandate, of course.”
“Good. For if we cannot keep watch on all the world’s scoundrels, then the seas should be rid of them entirely.”
Now they moved on, heading towards the gang-board of a ship moored nearby. I followed, darting behind a stack of crates to listen.
“Remind me,” said Torres. “Where in Africa are we looking?”
“Principé, sir. A small island,” said Hornigold.
Torres and Rogers strode up the gang-board but Hornigold hung back. Why? Why was he hanging back? And now I saw. With squinted eyes, the practised look of a seafarer, he scanned the horizon and studied the ships anchored like sentinels in the glittering ocean, and his eyes alighted on one ship in particular. And then with a lurch of shock, I realized where we were—within sight of the Jackdaw.
Hornigold tensed, his hand went to the hilt of his sword and he turned around slowly. He was looking for me, I knew, guessing that wherever the Jackdaw was, I wouldn’t be far away.
“Edward Kenway,” he called out, as his gaze passed around the docks. “Imagine my surprise at seeing your Jackdaw anchored here. Have you heard all you came to hear? Will you now go and rescue the poor Sage from our clutching hands?”
In retrospect it was a bit rash, what I did next. But I was unable to think of anything but the fact that Benjamin had been one of us. One of my mentors, a friend of Edward Thatch. Now he worked to try and destroy us. All of that bubbled to the surface in a rage as I emerged from behind the crates to face him.
“A pox on you, traitor. You’ve betrayed us!”
“Because I found a better path,” said Hornigold. Instead of drawing his weapon he signalled with his hand. From the warehouse behind I heard the sound of swords being drawn.
Hornigold continued. “The Templars know order, discipline, structure. But you never could fathom these subtleties. Good-bye, old friend! You were a soldier once! When you fought for something real. Something beyond yourself!”
He left, almost breaking into a run. From the warehouse came his reinforcements and the men closed in behind him, forming a crescent around me.
Taking them by surprise, I started quickly forward, grabbed a sailor who waved his sword to no particular effect and span him, using him as a shield and pushing him forward so that his boots skidded on the harbour stone.
At the same time there was the crack of a pistol and my human shield took a musket ball that was meant for me before I shoved him into the line of men and with my left hand snatched out my first pistol. I shot a heavy in the mouth, holstered it and snatched my second at the same time as I engaged the blade and sliced open a third man’s chest. Discharged the pistol. A wayward shot, it nevertheless did the job and stopped a man bearing a cutlass and sent him falling to the ground with his hands at his stomach.
I crouched and whirled, taking the legs from beneath the next man, finished him with a quick and ruthless blade-punch to the chest. Then I was on my feet, scattering the last two men, their faces portraits in terror, not wishing to join their comrades dead or bleeding on the harbour floor, and ran for my row-boat to get back to the Jackdaw.
As I worked the oars back to where my ship was moored I could imagine the conversation with my quartermaster; how he’d remind me that the men didn’t approve of my quest.
They’d approve, though, once we found The Observatory. Once we found The Sage.
And it took me a month, but I did.
FIFTY
JULY 1719
I found him on Principé, one afternoon, in a camp full of corpses.
Now, here’s what I’d learnt about The Sage, whose full name I learned was Bartholomew Roberts, some of which was later told to me by him, some by others.
What I learnt was that we had something in common: we were both Welsh, me from Swansea, him from Casnewydd Bach, and that he had changed his name from John to Bartholomew. That he had gone to sea when he was just thirteen, as a carpenter, before finding himself an object of interest for this secret society known as the Templars.
At the beginning of 1719, with the Templars and the Assassins on his tail, The Sage had found himself serving as a third mate on the Princess, just as I’d been told, serving under Captain Abraham Plumb.
As I’d learnt in Kingston, in early June the Princess had been attacked by pirates in the Royal Rover and the Royal James, led by Captain Howell Davis. Somehow, Roberts, wily operator that he was, had inveigled himself in with Captain Howell Davis. He’d convinced the pirate captain, also a Welshman, as it happens, that he was a superb navigator, which he might well have been, but he was also able to talk to Captain Davis in Welsh, which created a further bond between the two men.
It was said that Bart Roberts was not keen on becoming a pirate at first. But as you’ll see, he took to his new job like he was born to it.
They landed on Principé. The Royal Rover, this was, what with the Royal James having to be abandoned with worm damage. So, the Royal Rover headed for Principé, and by hoisting British colours, was allowed to dock, where the crew played the part of visiting English sailors.
Now, according to what I heard, Captain Davis came up with a plan to invite the governor of Principé on board the Rover on the pretext of giving him lunch, and then as soon as he was aboard take him hostage and demand a huge ransom for his release.
Perfect. Couldn’t fail.
But when Davis took men to meet the governor, they were ambushed along the way.
Which was where I came in.
I crept into the camp, into the deserted scene of the ambush, where the fire had burned down to red embers and scattered around it, one man actually lying in the dying red embers of the fire, his corpse slowly cooking. Scattered around were more bodies. Some were soldiers, some were pirates.
“Captain Kenway?” came a voice, and I span around to see him there: The Sage. Perhaps I would have been pleased to see him; perhaps I would have thought my journey was at an end. If he hadn’t been pointing a gun at me.