“Don’t worry,” said Villienne, patting the barkeep on the shoulder. “With a hole like that drilled in the hull she’ll never make it back to the Yorkman anyway.”
Jonesy glanced at the rapidly filling boat. “Don’t worry?” he muttered incredulously, but Villienne and Little Jane were already heading in the direction of the masthead. With a sigh, Jonesy let go of the jollyboat’s painter and started off after the others. Somebody had to make sure those two stayed out of trouble.
Luckily, it was shallow enough that they could walk through the choppy surf and still keep their heads above water. It was a most uncomfortable wade over the spiky, coral encrusted terrain to the jagged black rocks of the Nameless Isle, but it wasn’t as if they had a choice.
Finally, they made it to shore, and Little Jane was first to begin the climb upward, taking care not to slip on the water-slicked rocks.
How come when Papa talks about his adventures they always sounds like so much fun? she thought crossly. When he told his stories, she never doubted he’d manage to get out of any spot of bother. After all, he was right there in front of her, big as life, telling her about it. Even when he ended up outsmarted, like by that Druid who’d turned him into a tree, his stories always had a way of turning out funny somehow. Things made sense. Things were fair. It wasn’t all just a bunch of clueless people stumbling around in the dark looking for some way to save themselves, trying and trying but never getting any closer to their goal, running just to stay in place, with everything so bleedin’ chancy you just wanted to go ahead and scream.
Furiously, Little Jane smacked the rock. Impassive stone bit into the still-healing flesh of her palm with a sharp, stinging sensation that instantly brought tears to her eyes and a curse to her lips.
Focus on the task at hand, she heard her mother saying with a disapproving shake of her braids. She kept climbing.
As she pulled herself up over the last rock, the masthead came into sight. It was wedged in the midst of a large mound of smaller rocks. From their careful shape and positioning, Little Jane guessed they were placed there by human hands, rather than by some natural phenomenon.
“What is this?” she asked.
“A cairn,” said Jonesy, puffing as he pulled himself up beside her. “I told you Old Captain Bright was buried here!”
“This is it? I always thought it’d be bigger, the way me mum talks about him.”
“I’d say he was pretty lucky,” piped up Villienne, always willing to share a little knowledge. “I mean, statistically, most pirates survive only a few years and are buried at sea or hung from the gibbet as criminals.”
“Thanks.” Little Jane shot him an irritated glance. “That really helps.”
Villienne flushed and tried to correct himself. “Not that I mean you personally or —”
“Just give me your compass,” she said before he managed to embarrass himself further.
Villienne removed his gyroscopic pocket compass and watched the needle dance until the arrow came to rest pointing north.
“If north be that way, than east is this way, in the direction of the cairn,” muttered Little Jane to herself. “But that makes no sense, we can’t walk through solid rock and there’s nowhere else to go from here but back the way we came.” Little Jane raised a hand to her eyes and looked east. Squinting against the sun, she saw a sudden a flash of light between two rocks. “Look at that!” She pointed.
“I see it, too. It looks like a path through the rocks,” said Villienne.
Little Jane scrambled off in the direction of the opening and the two men did their best to keep up.
“You can’t possibly expect me to fit through there,” protested Jonesy as they approached the narrow opening. Little Jane passed easily through and took off up the path. The tight passage presented no difficulty for Villienne’s weedy scholar’s frame either. Jonesy sucked in his gut and followed, wedging himself through the crack in the stones as carefully as he could. Thankfully, the path widened as they made their way along, and soon the magistrate and the barkeep were able to walk side by side.
They had been walking for several sweaty, mosquito-filled hours when Little Jane stopped in her tracks, causing Villienne and Jonesy to nearly plough into her from behind.
“Shhhh!” She held a finger to her lips. “Listen.”
Jonesy and Villienne heard an eerie sound, like the creaking of rusty hinges on a door, though there was no building in sight. Little Jane pictured a ghostly haunted gate, swinging lazily back and forth as it hung in midair.
“It might be dangerous. Let me go in first,” Jonesy whispered. With worried faces, Little Jane and Villienne let him by.
Jonesy crept around the curving corner of a rock face, with Villienne and Little Jane right behind. The water lay far below them now. They heard the creaking sound again, closer this time. Little Jane could have sworn it was right above her, though she saw nothing unusual.
Clang!
“Jonesy!” Little Jane squealed.
Little Jane jumped around the corner after him, wooden sword brandished high, not knowing what horrible sight might meet her eyes.
“Aaah! Get off’r me, you ghost!” yelled Jonesy as he swatted at the air overhead.
When he realized that his fist was stuck inside a rusty old ship’s lantern, he looked at Little Jane and Villienne sheepishly.
“Where’d that come from?” Little Jane asked.
Jonesy pointed up at an old metal ring. A single rusty streak ran down the obsidian rock from it like a dribble of bright orange liquid down a blackboard. The streak formed the shape of an arrow, too precisely delineated to be a coincidence. Villienne voiced what they all were thinking: human hands had purposely formed the symbol.
“I don’t understand. It’s just a straight drop down from here,” puzzled Villienne, looking over the edge.
“Or is it?” asked Little Jane, pointing to another arrow etched into the rocky ground. She got down on her hands and knees to take a closer look. At the edge of the cliff she spied two small metal hooks embedded in the rock. There, dangling from the metal hooks down the side of the cliff was a rope ladder, of the same kind she’d often used to climb up the masts on the Pieces of Eight. She pulled at it, expecting it to come apart in her hands like the lantern had, but the hempen material seemed sturdy enough. Hoping the hooks in the rock would hold, Little Jane grabbed the top rung, swung her legs over the side, and started making her way carefully down, only bothering to call out to Villienne and Jonesy when she was at the bottom. Soon all three of them had made it down the ladder.
Little Jane, Villienne, and Jonesy looked out across the wide moat of water and felt their spirits sink. From the distant shore, the dark mountain loomed over them, rising high up into the clouds, looking taller than Little Jane had ever seen it before. “Maybe Melvin’s wrong,” she said wearily.
Chapter Ten
Crossing the Moat
A haphazard structure of lashed-together driftwood with a pair of uneven crutches for oars, that’s all it was. Long John shook his head at their handiwork. Much as he hated the crutches, it galled him sorely to sacrifice the useful implements to such a useless cause. Far worse was Madsea’s announcement that he would be left behind.
“Fetz, you can’t be serious,” Long John pleaded desperately. “What of me wife’s honour? It ain’t proper to let her alone with three men in a boat.”
“Raft, you mean. And he’s right, you know,” added Doc Lewiston. “Propriety dictates we take him. He is her husband, after all.”
“Please, Captain Madsea,” sighed Bonnie Mary piteously, “I’d be too shamed to go without him.”
At this Madsea threw back his head and laughed until he doubled over coughing. “Oh, come now, that’s the best you can do? Poor Mary’s honour? Why, we all know she don’t got no more honour than a dockside jade, ain’t that right, Mary?”
Staring daggers at Madsea, Bonnie Mary clutched her hands tightly together to prevent herself from rip
ping her bodice open on the spot to remove the knife. She longed to eviscerate the contemptuous blackguard where he stood.
“You dare! I’ll shut yer gob for you,” Long John hissed at Madsea. From his place on the ground he lunged for Madsea’s ankles, intending to pull the barnacle-sucking son of a bilge rat down to where he could pummel him into a pleasing pulp.
But it was not to be. With a lazy kick to the pirate’s belly, Kingly easily intercepted him. Long John grunted but did not stop talking. “Listen,” he gasped. “I’ll swim you across. I swim like a bleeding otter, I do. Just let me stay with Mary and I’ll drag you and your fellows behind me.”
“Ah, Jim.” Madsea gave a disdainful shake of his head. “It’s too late to change your tune now. Come along, Mary,” he said, yanking her toward the raft by the rope that encircled her waist.
Gritting her teeth, Bonnie Mary stumbled after him.
“You’ll regret this, all a’ you. You ain’t through with me yet. If I don’ get you, the shark in the moat will. Y’mark me words. I’ll send ’im after you, I swear!” Long John shouted as they walked away, Kingly carrying the makeshift raft.
Ignoring the pirate’s threatening words, Kingly placed the raft upon the water and helped Madsea, Darsa, Doc Lewiston, and an apprehensive Bonnie Mary onto its rickety boards before pushing it out into the moat with quick thrusts of his giant shoulders. The bosun then hopped on before the water became too deep.
“Keep an eye on him, Snepper,” Madsea yelled as the raft bobbed away.
“Aye, Captain!” the seaman shouted from shore.
“Come back you daft fools,” Long John called after them. He watched the cobbled-together craft bob off across the water, his sweet Mary staring sorrowfully back at him. “Please,” he begged.
The sailors well enough to take notice laughed weakly.
Seaman Snepper sniggered, tightening his grip on Long John’s arm. All the pirate could do was watch as the raft moved away, Kingly’s powerful arms propelling it toward the far shore.
But it wasn’t long before another orange-bird-related cramp struck Seaman Snepper, prompting him to release the pirate to seek relief behind the rocks. He left what he thought was a subdued Long John laying on the black sand, forgetting in his urgency that no one ever managed to subdue a Silver for long.
Long John spotted his chance. Edging forward on his belly, the wily pirate slipped quietly into the moat without attracting any notice. He dove down into the cool water and didn’t come up for air again until he was well away from shore.
He surfaced with arms swinging. He swam like mad, trying to catch up with the raft. Just then one of the sailors on the shore took notice of his absence. He heard shouting and the report of guns behind him. Luckily, the orange-bird sickness had left the sailors from the Panacea so dizzy they could hardly aim their pistols and soon Long John was out of their range.
He swam with all his might, but the opposite shore remained tantalizingly far away. His injured knee still pained him and he was tiring fast. The initial burst of adrenalin that had propelled him through the water quickly faded, and he cursed himself for forgetting to remove Doc Lewiston’s splint before diving in. The weight of the splint dragged on him, slowing his progress with every kick. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he managed to pull it off and shake himself free.
Now all he had to worry about were sharks. That is, if there truly were any. Even Long John couldn’t be sure if the sharks were just another one of those legends and rumours that tended to collect around the subject of the Nameless Isle, or if they really existed.
Keeping his eyes just above the waterline, he could see the raft bobbing ahead of him. He could have spotted Bonnie Mary’s bright orange head-kerchief from a mile away. He didn’t want to get too close, as he knew Madsea, Kingly, and Darsa were toting weapons and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him dead in the water if given the chance. Luckily, the small waves making their way across the surface of the water and the sun in their eyes prevented Madsea and his crew from spotting him. And if Bonnie Mary noticed Long John tailing the raft, she obviously said nothing about it to her captors.
Hold fast Mary, he thought. I’m coming!
Kingly pulled on his “oar,” which was really just one of the crutches wrapped in a seaman’s jacket, and looked back toward the shore.
“Haven’t they hit him yet?” muttered Madsea in frustration, squinting against the sun.
“No idea, sir,” answered Darsa, looking over the water’s rippling surface. “Twits couldn’t hit the right side of a barn, y’ask me.”
Bonnie Mary shaded her eye with her hand, not trusting herself to look directly at the water. She did not want the others to notice if she happened to spot her husband. The gunfire continued, without any telltale cheers to indicate success.
“I’d say Silver’s either drowned or out of range by now,” Kingly announced sourly.
“Blast!” growled Madsea.
“And he ain’t the only one what’s following us,” added Darsa.
“What? Who else could be out there?”
“That!” cried Darsa in alarm. He pointed a shaking finger at a large, shadowy shape in the water. “What in the world is that?”
The other occupants of the raft craned to get a better look. Suddenly, a large grey shape broke the surface of the water just a few feet from the raft. Just as quickly it sank back under. Beneath them something was stirring up the muck at the bottom of the moat. Their eyes darted frantically across the surrounding water. In mute horror, they watched as the grey shape reappeared, circling the raft just below the surface, closer, and closer still. It was heading right toward them.
“Maybe we was wrong before,” said Little Jane as they stood at the edge of the moat. There were rocks to the right of them, rocks to the left of them, and a wide moat of water in front of them. From the distant shore, the black cone of the volcanic mountain rose high up into the clouds, taller than anything Little Jane had ever seen.
“So,” mused Jonesy. “What do we do now? Melvin got any more bright ideas?”
“We could swim,” suggested Little Jane.
“You know I can’t swim a lick,” admonished Jonesy.
“Then me’n Villienne’ll have to do it without you,” decided Little Jane. “It’s the only way I see we be getting across.”
“We can go back and wait for Ishiro to return. We don’t have to do this.”
“We don’t,” insisted Little Jane, “but I do.”
“Magistrate.” Jonesy looked helplessly at Villienne. “Explain to her why she’s wrong.”
“Actually, I think she’s right,” confessed Villienne. “It doesn’t look too deep from here. I think we’re meant to wade across. The arrow pointed this way. Logically, it can only mean others must have crossed here before.”
“Or we could just be completely off the mark,” retorted Jonesy.
“Well, I fer one ain’t going back!” declared Little Jane. And without further ado she waded into the shallows.
“Villienne, tell her she can’t,” cried Jonesy, but the magistrate only gave him a sympathetic shrug and began removing his shoes.
Anxiously, Jonesy watched Little Jane wade in up to her waist.
“C’mon, slowcoach, it’s nice n’ warm!” Little Jane shouted back at Villienne.
“Coming, coming,” replied Villienne, stashing his shoes in his knapsack with the specimen jars.
Jonesy cursed his cowardice, but still could not bring himself to enter the water.
“Look out for her, Villienne,” Jonesy advised the magistrate, as Villienne waded in.
“Of course, my good man,” Villienne reassured Jonesy airily. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”
“What about sharks?” Jonesy offered feebly.
“Ecologically impossible in water this shallow,” Villienne answered cheerfully. “Buck up, Mr. Jones. We’ll be fine.”
After twenty minutes, Villienne was beginning to feel a little less certain a
bout the “ecological impossibility” of sharks due to the depth of the moat water. The water was now up to his chest, and much murkier. Whenever he stepped down, clouds of mud swirled up in his wake, obscuring the bottom of the moat. If some bloodthirsty creature was swimming around down there, he’d have no way of knowing until it was too late. And if there was one thing more disconcerting to Villienne than anything else in the world, it was not knowing something.
Chapter Eleven
Attack of the Yorkman
Lieutenant Jesper paced the deck of the Panacea, exuding his characteristic air of jumpy watchfulness. He chewed on a coffee bean, tasting the bitter juice. It was a habit he’d picked up from some Colombian sailors. They told him the beans kept one from nodding off during long night watches, but more importantly in Jesper’s case they gave him something to occupy his mouth with. He needed something to prevent himself from telling off his listless crew. He knew they couldn’t help feeling poorly, but nothing aboard ship was getting done. The cannons were still not primed and the navigational calculations they needed for their return trip were incomplete. Even the boards of the deck hadn’t been swabbed and were all sticky, he noticed with disgust.
Captain Madsea survives and comes back, he’ll have my head. How did everything get so buggered up so quickly? Jesper wondered as another intestinal cramp tore through him and he was forced to take refuge in the water closet used by the common crew. He left the bridge against his better judgement, hoping all hell wouldn’t break loose in the interim.
Unaware of the trouble on board the Panacea, the Yorkman glided smoothly around the coast of the island, while down in the hold the men prepared for the sneak attack. A hand signal from the crow’s nest confirmed what Captain Ishiro had already seen with his own eyes. They were almost upon the enemy ship.
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