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Chapter 1 It was wintertime on the sixtieth parallel. A blustery gale howled through the twilight and raked the rugged Newfoundland coast, crashing mighty waves into the rocks. Cast high in the air, the water broke into myriad individual fragments that floated weightlessly before falling to the snow in a shower of shimmering pearls. One unusually large tower of water fell upon an unsuspecting flock of seagulls. They exploded from their perch and winged upward through the mist in a spectacular array. Huge chunks of severed icebergs rocked in the ripples of the sea far from the pounding surf. The sky was a rich oil canvas of sweeping brushstrokes created by the distorted mind of an aged painter. The vanishing flight of fleeting wing tips dissipated into the vastness of the cloud-laden sky. And, under a dusting of snow, the barren soil gave life to only those few hearty tufts of wild grass attempting to struggle through a Newfoundland winter. A house stood surveying the battleground where ocean met rock. It was the iron-souled home of Charles "Buttons" Alfred Burnside, my grandfather. Inconspicuous and far from the water, the house was a harmonious, uninvolved aspect of a larger landscape. However, the two-story structure sat resolutely upon the soft powdered snow and proudly fronted on the sea. The small, enclosed entranceway that connected the front door to the face of the house was a firm-set jaw ready to withstand nature's deadly spears, daring the elements to loose the structure from its foundation. A heavy wood-shingled roof backed by a square annex gave the contour of the warrior sufficient mass with which to fight the invading cold, the wind and the sea. A square chimney assured the house of its own superiority over all in sight; curling grey smoke billowed high above it, its heartiness and warmth reflecting the happy, tightly knit family protected within. "Buttons" Burnside, that twenty-somethingth odd day in January 1713, sat on a long, high-backed bench alongside the roaring fire. Firewood was scarce those days, but that evening he permitted my brother Jess and me to place a few extra logs in the hearth to pierce the extreme cold that enveloped our home. Buttons looked that day the way he had always appeared to me: white lace beneath his chin and about his iron wrists, the same blue redingote slightly faded, and his tall black, but dusty boots. As always, his aged face held the same robustness that I attributed to his youthful vitality. The short, white stubble of his whiskers frosted his somewhat shallow cheeks and leathery neck. His deep, blue, dreamy eyes, amid friendly wrinkles, gazed down knowingly at the large tattered book he held on his knees. I don't remember when I had ever seen him read anything but that book, his ancestral tome, He had read to Jess and me ever since those mysterious black scrawls formed ideas in our heads. We had learned every story in the book, word for word. It told of everything Buttons was interested in: the sea, ships and faraway lands. He would read the book with a remote glint in his eyes, perhaps taking him back to the days when once he, like his maritime forbearers, had worked and even commanded the mighty vessels of the sea. Little did I know that our hostile land was an escape from his past, and the glint in our grandfather's eye was due to us, mere innocents in the world. Buttons had taught us how to run those ships, and, even though we only saw them on the infrequent occasions when they passed our remote island or during our monthly journeys to town, we could still name and recognize the function of every line and sail of any type of sailing vessel afloat. He had told us the difference between the quarterdeck and the waist, the spars and the yards, the windlass and the capstan, teaching us all about tacking, wearing and bracing a ship till if we ever had to, Jess and I could easily sail a ship by ourselves. He had drawn us pictures of the ships he had served on, even the one on which he was bos'n in charge of the deck crew and rigging. He had sketched out diagrams as to the proper method of starboard tacking, mainsail hauling, bracing yards and so on until by the age of fourteenãJess was thirteenãI could have been the captain of any vessel afloat, with unparalleled success at that! We had always listened attentively, for we knew that someday, somehow this would be our life. But as for the present, our lives simply meant tending to Buttons' flock of sheep, which was the only mainstay on the island. We had a few chickens to supply us with eggs, a well dug deep in the earth and a cow to provide us with milk. But, aside from those sources of nourishment, there was little to live on and little entertainment to hurry by the restless hours. The nearest town was thirty miles away on another island, and it required a two-day rowboat ride to arrive at its distant shores. It seemed that the only reason we went to town was to keep the townspeople informed that we were still alive and well, possibly even to give the folks something to gossip about. Of course, they were our only contact with the outside worldãthey would call us the outside worldãand we did get information on England and the Americas as we purchased our necessities. In town we could also take in the great ships that we had learned so much about back at home. We studied and worshipped those fine crafts. We observed every detail of their construction and searched for any scrap of information that might puzzle us, so that we could discuss it later with Buttons. We marveled at their grace, power and beauty. We were astounded at the tremendous size of their sails and computed how fast each ship might run under a stout breeze. I imagined myself at the helm of those noble vessels, amid the smoke, noise and confusion of battle, and sinking bravely with my ship. My imagination made me commander of great naval fleets with flagships a hundred and thirty feet long, placing my crew in precarious situations where only my skill, knowledge and leadership could save the ship and bring honor to the Crown. So I had many reasons to look forward to town. It was a strong force that drew me, and the tedious hours of rowing were worth the effort. Jess and I, too, had caught the fever that had drawn generations before us to the sea. We saw waves with our eyes, but had ships in our thoughts and distant lands in our dreams. We had a deep and uncontrollable yearning, an ardent fervor, for the sea, On warmer days, Jess and I would spend hours sitting atop our island's peak, a mere fifty foot rise behind our house, and overlook the ocean in an easterly direction. From there we could view the world. We could gaze north to the vast, unexplored expanse of snow and ice. We could look east to England, France and Spain. And beyond that was a continent called Asia with the Chinese people. If Jess and I would cast our gaze southeast, just over the rise would be Africa with all those untamed natives with dark skin. Directly south of us was the coastline of North America with large towns like Boston and New York that Buttons had told us about. But to the west of that were mountains and rivers that no man had ever seen. Miles and miles of untaken land, beautiful land, we would think. But Jess and I found it hard to believe that there was a whole ocean even bigger than our own that lay beyond that! Of course, it couldn't be true, but if Buttons thought there wasä Buttons had once told us that over three hundred years ago a man had sailed around the world, returned to his home and lived to tell of it. But if I ever had the opportunity, I would sail around the world three hundred times in one year! Now, Jess and I had grown up together. I was only one year older, so we had gained just about equal amounts of knowledge and experience. We had one teacherãButtons; and when Jess listened to his stories, I listened, too. So when it came to the question of sailing around the world, we both sincerely believed that there could be nothing more exciting for a person to do in his lifetime. There, before us, lay a vast system of transportation reaching to the far corners of the world, Uncharted or well-traveled, those were the main veins of a seaman's life, those oceans, seas, estuaries, lakes, rivers and streams. The only thing we lacked was a means of transport, and that was where my dreaming took over. If we only had a shipä But that winter evening was too cold for us to sit atop our hill and survey the world. We had found an equally fun and interesting way to pass the time. We would listen to Buttons as he read from the big, brown book. "The Ruler threw his arms in the air with despair, littering buckets of jewels over the floor of his palace. 'I shall see you no more, ugly griffin; the sight of your face does no longer please my eyesãbe gone!' 'That has been your third wish, my master, and you shall have no more,' the ugly griffin informed him. And suddenly the Sultan threw one of his tempers in which the very spires of the Golden City rattled with fear. He was so angry at his own stupidity for having used his three wishes so foolishly that he threw his box of royal jewels into the sea and never spoke to anyone again for the rest of his life." Jess' eyes were wide with astonishment, and so were mine, although we had heard the story many times before. Buttons sat back comfortably in his high-backed bench, savoring the reward of a well-told tale. Watching as we marveled in disbelief, he knew full well that the story was as untrue as one could possibly be. And even if I detected a smile on his lips, the same question entered my mind: "Is there really such a place as that, Buttons?" I was sure that such a place existed, and just wanted to hear the sound of his voice speaking of far-off lands where gold and rubies were as plentiful as grass and trees. I wanted to be taken to his room to review the multitude of maps fixed permanently to his walls. I liked to be shown how the place of our dreams was not all that imaginary. "Aye, Rab," he said. "China, they call it, a land of statues and jewels and mystical temples and Chinese people with beautiful eyes. You know, I once knew a Chinese chap. Years ago, he was a cook in the galley of our ship, the Santa Rosa. As I recall it, lads, we were rounding the Great Cape during the worst storm I had ever endured in my entire days on the Seven Seas. Our entire bulwark was battered off the fo'c's'le, and the captain yells, 'B'lay the Fore Royal Stay!"' Jess and I gasped, knowing full well the implications of this. The foremost line securing the foremast to the prow of the ship was the most crucial line onboard! And here, without bulwarks, or railings, and the forecastle deck slippery from waves, a man must belay the end of that line! So, before anyone on the ship could react, Tito, as we called him, the Chinaman, leapt from the hatch and scurried to the line that slithered like a snake on the slippery deck. He dove for the rope and grasped it with both arms and made his way to the jib boom. He secured both legs around the boom and inched his way to the end. Here he held tightly, an inch from death." Buttons showed us an inch with his thumb and first finger. "There he stuck to the end of that boom, the Santa Rosa rising and falling like never before, and there he belayed the line, thus saving our entire crew." "Did he get off the end of the jib boom safely, grandfather?" Jess asked excitedly as if the climax of the story had yet to be reached. "No, my lad, he did not. The next wave swept over the boom, and when it cleared, Tito was gone." "Oh, how terrible." "Who did the cooking after that?" I asked, trying to lighten the subject. "I did, and I did a darn swell job at that!" And so we laughed heartily. It broke up the tension created by the story. Then Buttons stood up. Our eyes followed him as he reached for the mantelpiece where he removed a candle. He lighted it with a glowing ember from the fire. Then we followed him through the room and up the ladder of the darkened house. He led us to his room. There he lit another candle, which brightened the room considerably. The candlelight flickered from a cold draught of air, illuminating four walls of maps and charts that represented every detail of land from the known world. We followed him to the far right corner of the room where he removed a chair. We all knelt in the corner and watched as his finger slowly traced the outline of Asia until it finally stopped. "China," he stated. I studied the map closely, noting the strange names of the towns and rivers located there. "There's much more to that land than you will ever know," he said. On that mysterious note, I stood back. Buttons held the candle high, and we got an overall view of the world. "My, that's far away from here," gasped Jess. "Why, that must be hundreds of miles from the Americas!" "Not miles. Hundreds of leagues, perhaps, my young lad," corrected our knowing grandfather. Oddly, the great distance seemed to comfort him. For me, the greater the obstacle, the greater the attraction. "Hundreds of leagues," I whispered to myself. It was difficult to comprehend, since the farthest we had ever traveled was to town, and that was still in Newfoundland! At last we made our way to bed, for it was late after dinnertime, though there during the winter the sun had a way of exaggerating the time, sinking at four o'clock each afternoon.	Description The world of 1713 is a dangerous place for the adventurous spirit. But don't tell that to young Rab Burnside, his brother Jess, or grandfather Buttons. After they rescue a mysterious ship, they set sail on a daunting voyage across the wintry Atlantic to report to the Queen of England. Once safely there, they are given an important mission: to capture Mr. Smallbeer, the evil mastermind behind a global criminal enterprise. They hurry to Africa to track him down. And thus begins a voyage of discovery, adventure and intrigue, as our young heroes uncover the world's most dazzling secrets and desperate schemes. Bookstores Books and e-Books (click one): Kindle