Don’t think about it, she told herself. Wear them fellows out. Give rescuers time to reach us. Assuming any rescuers were coming, that is. She tossed her head to get a few stray braids out of her eyes, only to have the wind whip them right back in place again. Damp tendrils of hair stuck to her temples and a stripe of sweat ran down her spine, plastering her shirt to her back.
Bonnie Mary willed herself to keep moving, climbing over peaks and leaping deep crevices frothing with ocean water; from rock to rock like a Billy goat, with the rest of the group straggling along in single file behind her. Every few minutes she’d look over her shoulder toward the back of the pack, checking to make sure Jim was still there. He was, although she could see he was flagging, now more than ever.
At last she made it to a rocky outcropping with a flat, wide ledge. It was the first moderately level surface Bonnie Mary had been on in what seemed like hours. A high, craggy rock beside the ledge even created a pleasant bit of shade. There was a round depression in the flat floor that formed a bowl where a pool of water had collected. The shade of the high rock kept the water miraculously cool in the heat of the day. She dipped a finger in and tasted it: freshwater, not salt.
Bonnie Mary cupped her hands and drank deeply. She noticed a healthy patch of lush green lichen growing around the ridge of the rocky bowl and using her fingernails she managed to scrape a large strip of it off. She tore it in half, popped one part in her mouth, and quickly pocketed the rest before the remainder of the company caught up.
Fetzcaro Madsea leapt across the gulf between the rocks, staggering a little as he landed on the ledge beside her. “What the hell’re you doing?”
“Sitting,” she replied, swallowing her piece of the lichen in a single gulp. Calmly, she studied his face. There were two bright red spots on his cheeks and he seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes.
“Well, stop it. You have to get up … we have to … we have to make … to make …” Madsea’s voice trailed off. He coughed, staggered once more, then collapsed to his knees and tipped forward, his head landing in a shocked Bonnie Mary’s lap.
Doc Lewiston landed with a thump on the ledge just in time to see his captain collapse.
“Quick! Someone fetch me water,” cried the doctor.
Without thinking, Bonnie Mary scooped up some of the water from the depression on the ledge with her canteen and handed it to the doctor.
Doc Lewiston poured a little water in the captain’s mouth. He dampened the tail of his shirt and dabbed it over the captain’s overheated face. Madsea spluttered and choked, but quickly revived under these ministrations. It was clear that the captain’s energy level was at a serious low, so Doc Lewiston pronounced it as good a time as any for a bit of rest and victuals.
“Ahoy there,” panted Long John. “Looks as if they’ve stopped up ahead. Wonder what the trouble is.”
His captor said nothing. He was too busy expelling his breakfast over the side of a rock. The orange bird cuisine was doing its work at last, thought Long John with pleasure. He left the miserable seaman to this unpleasant activity and forged on toward Bonnie Mary and the rest of the party.
Bonnie Mary, Doc Lewiston, the bosun Kingly, and a weakened Madsea formed an awkward tableau on the rock. The other sailors sat crowded together on a rocky shelf nearby. Chipp, one of the cook’s mates from the Panacea, took the opportunity to hand out parcels of salted orange bird meat to the famished troops.
Doc Lewiston tried to coax Madsea into eating his meat ration, but the captain refused. The doctor noticed Kingly wasn’t eating either, which was strange because the bosun could usually be relied upon to devour anything on his plate, even maggoty old ship’s biscuit. The stout bosun’s face was unnaturally pale as he held his distended belly. Yes, it was decidedly odd, thought the doctor, but he had no time to look after the man. Something had to be done about the captain … and soon.
“He don’t look so good, and we ain’t a quarter through the journey yet. I’d be concerned if I was you, Doctor,” said Bonnie Mary. “Maybe we oughtta head back to the ship.”
“Please, let me think,” pleaded Doc Lewiston, dabbing his own overheated brow. “I saw you drinking that water. Is it fresh?”
“I think so,” replied Bonnie Mary hesitantly.
“Good enough.”
Lewiston scooped some of the water from the depression into his own cup. As he dipped his tin cup in, he scraped off some of green lichen with its metal rim. The bits of lichen floated up to the surface of the water like a strange species of tea leaf.
“I once knew a doctor who’d sailed with his majesty’s fleet in India,” Lewiston explained. “He found patients with dehydration often improved more speedily when re-hydrated with water from multiple sources.” Doc Lewiston glanced dubiously at the captain’s canteen of tepid rain barrel water that they’d collected over the past week on board the Panacea. He poured it out and replaced it with the fresh water from his cup and handed it back to Madsea. The captain drained the canteen and handed it back.
With a sigh, Doc Lewiston dipped the cup in again, scraping off a little more lichen in the process, and refilled the canteen. He then drank the rest himself.
That might complicate things, thought Bonnie Mary, chewing meditatively on a piece of orange bird wing. She hadn’t expected Madsea to drink the water from the pool. In addition, now Doc Lewiston was drinking it too. What if that little bit of lichen in it protected them from the effect of the orange bird meat? She had to talk to Jim. She stared out worriedly across the rocks, searching for him. Had he fallen without her noticing?
“Give an old tar a hand?” said a weary voice behind her.
“Jim!” She stood and reached out to help him hop across the gulf between the two rocks. He barrelled into her and they fell to the ground in an exhausted heap.
“What happened to Seaman Snepper?” asked the doctor suspiciously.
“Feeling poorly he was. Ain’t said why.” Long John sat down heavily and drained his canteen in a single gulp. “Oh Lordy, that’s good,” he said, letting out a long sigh. But the warm water failed to completely slake his thirst. “What think you of this heat, Mary?” he asked, making certain Doc Lewiston and the captain heard him.
“Bound to get worse,” Bonnie Mary answered. “Why, just look at those clouds.”
Lewiston peered skeptically at the three small clouds in the sky. They certainly looked harmless enough.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Doc, they looks a’right.” Long John nodded. “But best beware, them’s air hotness clouds, they is.”
“Air hotness clouds?” inquired the puzzled doctor.
“Aye,” agreed Bonnie Mary. “Cumulous numulous. Means this heat wave’ll last a week.”
“Maybe more,” added Long John.
“We should find someplace cool to hole up,” said Bonnie Mary, “or wait it out back on the ship. Try again when the heat wave’s passed.”
“Certainly be healthier for the captain.” Long John nodded toward Madsea.
At the mention of his name, Madsea suddenly sat bolt upright. He glared right at the two pirates, his gaze quickly becoming clear and focused. “Air hotness clouds,” he thundered. “I ain’t heard such bunk in all me days. There’s nothing unusual about them clouds. These deceitful pirates are just pulling the wool over your eyes.”
He rose to his feet with uncharacteristic vigour, brushing off Darsa’s proffered arm. “Mincing laggards, the lot o’ you! We’ve got to make the other side of these rocks by nightfall. Best we make a good start of it and leave now.”
He paused to size up a rather brazen orange bird that had landed on the ledge in the midst of his tirade.
“Eh? What’re you looking at?” The creature seemed to be enthralled by the soles of Madsea’s climbing shoes, where the shiny new metal cleats protruded from the leather, and it tilted its head quizzically up at him.
“Stupid bird!” yelled Madsea, booting the presumptuous bird off the rock. After t
his exertion, he paused for one of his customary coughing fits before clambering past the stunned sailors and continuing the trek over the treacherous rocks unaided.
Oddly enough, as they continued inland, Madsea actually seemed to gain energy, while the men who had begun the quest in the heartiest of health found themselves lagging as stomach cramps and nausea overtook them one by one.
As the sun set on the Nameless Isle, the party finally climbed over the last of the deadly black rocks and arrived, exhausted beside the expanse of water that encircled the mountain at the centre of the island like a moat. They made camp on a patch of black sand that seemed to be a popular feeding ground for large numbers of the peculiar orange birds. Doc Lewiston noticed that these specimens seemed to be much larger than any they had previously encountered. A few sailors made quick work of slaughtering several of the hapless creatures, and the two pirate captains graciously offered to help cook them on a spit over an open fire in traditional boucanier style. The meat emerged mouth-wateringly succulent and tender.
Though he sneered at the pirate captains’ pathetic attempts to ingratiate themselves with the crew, Madsea had to admit that the birds were deliciously prepared. In fact, he hadn’t eaten so heartily in months. Doc Lewiston congratulated him on his improved appetite.
As the launch party bedded down for the night, the Nameless Isle echoed with sounds unfamiliar to the men’s ears. The air around them vibrated with the hum of palm-sized mosquitoes. The eerie cries of the peculiar orange birds, still scouring the island for their missing companions now in the process of being digested by the unlucky sailors, kept all but the soundest of sleepers awake for hours.
Finally, as the moon hid her face behind a cloud and the darkness waxed complete, the birds’ cries died down at last. The only noise to be heard, if one listened very, very closely, was a soft munching sound coming from the far edge of the camp.
Long John was chewing on the bit of green lichen Bonnie Mary had saved for him, making sure to swallow every last bite.
Chapter Seven
M Is for Masthead
Early the next morning, Little Jane was the first to spot the volcanic cone of the Nameless Isle rising out of the sea from her perch in the crow’s nest, the highest point aboard the ship. It appeared shadowy and insubstantial, indigo-coloured from so far away. Yet no matter how many times Little Jane saw it, the sight of that mountain never failed to elicit in her a shiver of delight. To her the Nameless Isle was not cursed. It was an enchanted place; a land scooped out of fog by giants’ hands, made for herself and her family alone.
From her perch she saw the lights of the Panacea through the morning mist, blazing brightly even at such a distance. Apparently, the enemy captain was not expecting visitors, for nothing had been done to disguise the Panacea’s presence. The ship was anchored well off-shore, away from the rocky shallows near the island.
Informed of their enemy’s position, Ishiro immediately changed the Yorkman’s course, and they approached the island from the leeward side, taking the ship the long way around instead of sailing to the point they usually anchored at. The element of surprise was important, Ishiro explained, as the Yorkman was a smaller ship than the Panacea and, although much speedier, might be more easily sunk.
They extinguished every lantern aboard in the dense fog and tied the sails taut to prevent any luffing sounds from reaching the ears of the Panacea’s crew. The plan was to sneak up and take the Panacea unawares.
They made their way carefully around the island, the Yorkman’s shallower hull allowing them to manoeuvre the ship closer to the rocky shore than they would have been able to in the Pieces of Eight.
As the Yorkman hugged the shore, Little Jane watched the jagged peaks of the island’s rocks slide slowly past like the spikes on a vicious dog’s collar. Jonesy lifted his head from the bowsprit to stare at the forbidding black crags, dotted here and there with impressive growths of green lichen. “Well,” he said to Villienne with a wave of his hand, “you think your sample kit can fit it all?”
“It’s a botanist’s dream!” exclaimed the enraptured scientist. “Just think of all the new possibilities for nomenclature.”
As Villienne ran off below decks to find his specimen kit, “just in case,” Little Jane took out her spyglass.
The magistrate emerged a few minutes later with a butterfly net, a jumble of sample jars, cutting tools, and several test tubes stuffed with gauze.
“Ahoy, Captain,” Little Jane suddenly called out. “Ishiro, what d’ye make o’ that?”
She handed him the spyglass and pointed toward the shore, where a tall wooden pole stuck out like a toothpick from between two black fangs of rock.
“Looks like a piece of an old wreck,” he said dismissively. “Ship’s mast fetched up on the rocky shore. Must be years old, I’d say. Don’t see mastheads crafted like that nowadays.”
“Masthead?” Little Jane smacked her forehead with her palm. “M is for … masthead.”
“Stop the ship!” All hands turned in alarm as Little Jane roared the command. Her voice reached even the highest point of the forecastle.
“What’re you —”
“Ishiro, we have to drop anchor. Now!”
“Slow us down,” Ishiro instructed the crew. He turned back to Little Jane. “What’s going on? What’s so important about that masthead?”
Little Jane waved Melvin triumphantly before him. “It’s the masthead — the one from the code on the sword!”
“But —”
“We have to drop anchor here, get out and have a look.” She turned her large eyes on Ishiro in an effort to melt his resolve.
“No,” said Ishiro, a warning note in his voice.
“What?” Little Jane fell back, shaken to her core that the “big-eyes” tactic hadn’t worked.
“Was it but you and me, Little Jane, I would gladly say go, but I’ve a whole crew here, and they be depending on me. They swore articles that, was they to come aboard, it was not to set foot on the Nameless Isle. I ain’t going back on me promise to them.”
“But Ish —”
“Little Jane, maybe you don’t understand this sort of thing yet, but our best strategy is t’get to their ship and use our cannons on ’er quick as possible. Who knows? They may’ve already found the treasure and are fixing to leave. We’ve no time to waste gallivanting off after some half-baked sign on the say-so of some words carved on a sword.”
Little Jane simmered visibly, but did not back down. It was time to call in reinforcements. “Jonesy, tell Ishiro we have to drop anchor.”
Ishiro looked around carefully at the anxious faces of the crew. He dropped his voice a notch. “If I go with your suggestion, Little Jane, I risk mutiny from this entire crew. You don’t understand, superstitions run deep ’bout this island. ’Sides, who’s to say your folks ain’t still on the enemy ship?”
“Because I know them! More still, I know me father’s reputation. If you was the enemy captain and Long John Silver told you the coordinates where to find the treasure, would you trust him to give you correct directions?
“Not bloody likely,” admitted Jonesy.
“If the enemy is on that island looking for me parents’ treasure, then you better believe he’ll keep me mum and dad on a tight leash. Leastwise, that’s what I’d do. Otherwise what’s keepin’ ’em from giving him the coordinates for falling straight down a lava tube, while me parents sit safe on board. Leastways, if they lead him astray and they’re all on the island together, they’d be putting themselves in danger too and might think twice on it.”
“Hmm ...” muttered Jonesy, swaying to Little Jane’s side of the argument once more. “Ishiro, this business with the masthead, it stirs something in me, too.” Jonesy spoke slowly as if pulling up the memory from deep within the recesses of his mind, like a fossil pulled from the depths of a tarry swamp. “Seems to me I heard tell of something akin to this before. Sometime right after Jim and Mary come back from Anguilla, I think —
something about when they buried old Captain Bright on the island. I think they used it for a marker for the grave. They used the broken masthead from his ship, ’cause a masthead’s shaped like cross.”
Ishiro flushed at the mention of his old friend’s death at Anguilla. “Last I checked, your recollection of that particular point in history ain’t the clearest,” he snapped.
“And I’m the first to say you’re right about me memory,” confessed the bartender. “But if Bonnie Mary carved that on the sword, then maybe it’s something we oughtta be payin’ attention to.”
“We can go ourselves in the jollyboat,” suggested Little Jane. “We’d be able to dart among the rocks fair easy in a small vessel like her. Ain’t none of the crewmen got to land on the island. And besides, I’ll be safe while you do battle with the Panacea. You can pick us up after.”
Without waiting for Ishiro’s reply, Little Jane tossed a few canteens of fresh water into the boat and began to unhitch the moorings.
Ishiro’s eyes went wide at the prospect. “No. It ain’t safe. Even I’ve never walked on the island. What if I can’t get back to you? I can’t leave you here marooned. Jonesy, talk some sense into her. She’s —”
Little Jane hesitated, her hand on the last loop of mooring rope. All her life Ishiro had been the voice of reason in the face of plenty of her parents’ questionable schemes. She knew he was wise. “Listen to Ishiro while we’re away and do what he tells you.” How many times had her parents said that? But her parents weren’t here now and the words on the sword burned in her brain, demanding she listen.
“It’s all right, Captain Ishiro,” piped up a voice from behind the rain barrels. It was Villienne, who as his royal majesty’s appointed representative on Smuggler’s Bay had the right to eavesdrop on all conversations, as a matter of duty only, of course. “They don’t have to go by themselves. I’ll go with them. It’ll be a splendid adventure.”
Little Jane and the Nameless Isle Page 7