CHAPTER 1

A BIRTHDAY, AND A PRESENT

      On a frigid February morning, with the thermometer below zero, a red Subaru station wagon with rusty wheel rims came skittering around an icy corner on the road along the east bank of the Passagassawakeag River. It avoided a threatened skid, and continued to bump over ridges of packed snow on its way toward the middle school, where its passenger, Will Foster, was a student. The driver, Will’s mother, was a math and science teacher at the high school.
      The tides had broken the ice on the river into massive blocks, snowy on top, silt-stained underneath, and piled them in a chaotic jumble along the shore. Staring through the frosty window, Will saw, however, not ice and snow, but sunlit water rippled by a breeze that bore the scents of the tropics; instead of bare hardwoods and dark conifers, an impenetrable jungle covered the further bank, brilliantly green save where unknown blossoms made vivid splashes of red and yellow and purple. He was at the helm of a longboat pulling upriver from a privateer anchored in the bay.
      The first black captain to sail with letters of marque, he was leading a raid on a slavers’ stockade. The wind was ahead, and he had given the order for the mast and sail to be stowed along the thwarts, for use on their return. Eight burly sailors, naked to the waist, sweated at the oars as they slipped upstream under the tangled green canopy that overhung the water. His trusty first mate stood at the bow. He looked up, startled, as a parrot darted with a flash of scarlet and a piercing scream from a knarred branch that dipped almost to the water.
      “Keep your eyes skinned, Mr. Starbuck,” he called in a low voice. “Surprise is of the essence.” He steeled him-self for the fray to come. If they could get close enough without being discovered, they would storm the stockade under its defending guns, route the defenders, free the captives, and put the stockade to the torch before making their escape. The slavers were known to have a gunboat – it would take all his resolve and skill to bring it off.
      “So what do you want for your birthday, Will?”
      Birthday? Uh – a good cutlass would come in handy right now, considering that he only had the wooden sword he had made last Thanksgiving. No – much better – a two pound swivel gun. He would mount it in the bow of the longboat. It would serve well against the slavers’ gunboat.
      “Mr. Starbuck, do you see a creek ahead?”
      “Aye, sir.”
      “Train the gun on it. It may be an ambush.”
      At that moment a sleek, low craft propelled by a bank of long sweeps darted onto the river, and turned toward them. “Fire!” he yelled, but the mate had put the match to the primer before the order was fairly out of his mouth.
      BANG! The longboat shuddered – a pause – a column of water rose close under the bow of the gunboat. It continued its turn toward them. Now he could see the red beard of the man on the raised quarterdeck. It was Red Henry, the notorious pirate and slaver.
      “Reload, Mr. Starbuck. We have their range. Put a ball into their stern.”
      BA…
      “Will!”
      “Gadzooks, Mom, I mean Mr. Starbuck, don’t you know how to load a cannon? It misfired! You’ll have to do better than that. Draw the charge, and . . .”
      “WILL!”
      The lush brilliance was replaced by a flat mono-chrome of snow, bare trees, and leaden sky. Instead of the searing tropical sun, there was only the feeble warmth of the aging Subaru’s heater.
      “What?”
      “Don’t ‘what’ me! For goodness sakes, Will, I don’t know what you’re dreaming about sometimes. I’m asking you what you want for your birthday. The least you could do is give me the courtesy of an answer.” His mother tended to be irascible in the rush of the morning.
      “Sorry, Mom. I don’t know. Maybe a new baseball glove.”