Boooommmmm!
Thunder exploded outward as the recoil sent the cannons bucking back. The cannonballs flew through the haze of smoke, hitting with uncharacteristic precision at such close range. The crew of the Yorkman tensed again, preparing for a third volley.
“One more time, Capt’n?” Matan asked.
But this time Ishiro didn’t give the sign. He paused, listening.
“Hold your fire!” he yelled.
Sounds of a scuffle were coming from the Panacea, but the smoke was still too thick to see exactly what was happening.
Then they heard another sound.
“We surrender,” a high treble voice shouted out across the water. Ishiro thought he recognized it.
“Now you say it,” the familiar voice on the enemy ship prompted.
Through the smoke came another, deeper voice, off the deck of the Panacea. It was Lieutenant Jesper. “We surrender,” he said hollowly.
“Louder,” ordered the high voice.
“Ouch! Would you stop that,” muttered a perturbed Lieutenant Jesper. “Fine. We surrender,” he yelled loudly. “Satisfied?”
But his last word was drowned out by the combined cheers of the remains of the Pieces of Eight’s crew on the Panacea and the crew on board the Yorkman.
High above the smoke, a white flag of surrender leapt up the defeated Panacea’s mizzenmast. There was a sudden gust of wind, and the smoke cleared enough that Captain Ishiro could make out the figure of Jezebel Mendoza waving at him from the deck of the Panacea. Her other hand held the point of a sword to Lieutenant Jesper’s throat. Next to her stood Rufus, his trusty belaying pin at the ready. Lockheed motioned enthusiastically from behind the shattered railing of the gun deck, where the Panacea’s deadliest cannon had disappeared moments before.
“Ahoy there,” cried out Changez, waving his arms like a windmill. “Who goes there?”
“It’s Ishiro!” shouted Sharpeye Sharpova, who could always tell this sort of thing, even without a spyglass.
“Good afternoon, Panacea. Is everyone aboard ship-shape?” Ishiro called from the Yorkman.
“Aye-aye!” cried Mendoza. “The hold is filling with water, so we need to get everyone off the ship.”
Members of the crew were still making their way up on deck. Thankfully, the former crew of the Pieces of Eight all appeared unharmed.
“Good work!” exclaimed the delighted Captain Ishiro. “Wonderful.”
“Wonderful? Wonderful, he says? It ain’t bleedin’ wonderful!” screamed a petulant Lieutenant Jesper at his men, unleashing a litany of curses upon them. “We’re sinking, and it’s all your fault.”
The Panacea’s injured shooters glanced up angrily from where they were busy cooling their hands in the ship’s mop buckets to mutter some unkind things about their commander.
Before the angry sailors could take any action, however, Ishiro intervened.
“Acting Captain Jesper, I suggest you prepare your men to evacuate ship,” he instructed.
“Hurrah! Let’s hear it for Captain Ishiro,” cried Harley.
Another cheer ran up from the Yorkman’s crew, but Ishiro motioned for silence. “Let’s wait until everyone’s off the Panacea before we celebrate. Abandon ship, on the double!”
It is said that into every life, a little rain must fall, mused Doc Lewiston. Yet no one ever says anything about homicidal dolphins.
While plenty of exciting things were happening elsewhere, Lewiston was perturbed to find himself suddenly alone, clinging to a piece of the ruined raft for dear life. The current in the moat, which had suddenly become quite strong indeed, was in the process of dragging the good doctor around to the opposite side of the volcano. Though he tried to propel himself toward the nearest shore, his efforts were unsuccessful. He’d never learned to swim, but luckily he was a stout man, with most of his stoutness concentrated in fat, not muscle, and he floated surprisingly well.
Doc Lewiston had almost floated clear around to the other side of the island when one of the peculiar orange birds attracted his attention. Being a medical professional, and a naturally perceptive sort, Doc Lewiston immediately noticed that this bird possessed a remarkable talent. It could walk on water!
Doc Lewiston was still pondering this great scientific discovery as he bobbed closer and closer to the creature. He was on a collision course with the strange bird, but just before they collided, he realized his mistake. The bird wasn’t actually walking on the water, but on a low rock shelf just under the waterline.
The bird squawked and flapped away as Lewiston was swept straight into the submerged wall of very solid rock. With the wind momentarily knocked out of him, Doc Lewiston let go of the last remains of the shattered raft. With great difficulty, he managed to pull himself up and onto the wall of rock, where he lay gasping for air. When the world came back into focus, he rose to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. Amazed, he saw that the wall of rock seemed to be part of a wider platform of rock, visible just under the surface of the water.
The path appeared to stretch all the way to the interior of the island, over the shore, and up to the base of the cave-dotted mountain. He turned carefully around to look back at the black fangs of rock on the other side and noticed that the barely submerged path continued in that direction, too, all the way to the opposite shore.
Still marvelling at the illusion of walking on water, Doc Lewiston began to edge carefully along the path. He moved in the direction away from the mountain, thinking his best option lay in trying to reach the camp. He knew if he walked all the way around, he could make it back to the other sailors. There he could wait for Madsea and the others to return. The other crewmembers at the camp were still ill with the orange bird malady. If he was not destined to help Madsea, at least he might be able to do something to ease the suffering of the sickly crew.
The water’s not getting any shallower, thought Little Jane as she swam. At least it was relatively clear by this point, providing little cover for sharks or other marine predators. Realistically she knew, even if she saw a shark coming from far away, it was unlikely she’d be able to swim fast enough to escape. As for Villienne, he was still walking instead of swimming, though he looked increasingly uncomfortable as the water continued to rise.
“Come on, it’s faster if you swim,” she advised him. “We need t’get to the other side quick as we can.”
With the water now up to his shoulders, Villienne stopped to shift his knapsack to a new position on his head, where he hoped it might stay at least partially dry.
“Forget yer blasted bag o’ jars. We got to get to me parents afore it’s too late.” Little Jane glared at him, but then she noticed something. That look in his eyes wasn’t just worry or discomfort. No, it was an expression of stark, unreasoning terror at the thought of not being able to touch the bottom. The true nature of his plight suddenly dawned on her. She cursed herself for not realizing it before, then cursed him for being fool enough to try it.
“Blast! You can’t swim, can you?” She smacked the water in frustration.
Villienne reared back fearfully as the water hit his face. Not wanting to trouble anyone with a silly thing like his imminent drowning, and too proud to admit he’d exaggerated his talents, he’d tried his best to hide his difficulty for as long as possible.
“Heh,” Villienne laughed weakly, “guess you have me there.”
“Let’s just hope it don’t get any deeper,” was all Little Jane had to say.
But soon the water was too deep for Villienne to walk, and the magistrate struggled to crest even the smallest of waves.
“Look,” said Little Jane, trying hard to keep her voice steady. “Stretch your arms like this. See. Watch me. Now kick yer legs. Kick! Kick!” she shouted, but he just sunk farther down in the water.
“Crazy,” she spluttered in the salty water. “I don’t care that you’s a magistrate, why in blazes did you have to go and lie ’bout something as stupid as knowing how to swim?”
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br /> “Masthead,” gasped Villienne desperately, taking in a mouthful of seawater. “On the Yorkman … I knew … knew you … were right. Wanted … wanted to … make sure … sure Ishiro let us go.”
“But you could’ve stayed ashore with Jonesy. You didn’t have to …”
She trailed off, aware that Villienne couldn’t hear the rest. He was really and truly underwater now and didn’t appear to be resurfacing. Little Jane swore, then held her breath and dived down to retrieve him. Grabbing Villienne by his shirt collar, she pulled the sinking magistrate to the surface.
He coughed, spewing up more seawater, while she held him up, trying to make him float as best she could.
“I didn’t realize,” he gasped, “I thought if you could swim, a little girl and all, well, me, a grown man, I should be able to do it easily.”
She glared back at him.
“It seemed logical at the time,” he protested. “Who thought it’d ever be this hard? I’m so dreadfully sorry. Now I’ve spoiled everything,” he moaned as he began to slip from her tired arms again.
She spat out a mouthful of saltwater and grabbed at him before he went down again. This sinking tendency of his was beginning to disturb her.
Should they go back? She didn’t know if he’d make it. But she couldn’t just leave him to drown. It was at this moment that she remembered something her father had taught her that spring in Smuggler’s Bay; a way to carry an injured seaman in the water.
He’d discovered it, or so he’d told her, on the Mississippi River, when he saved the life of a wealthy gambler who had been thrown off a steamboat by his sweetheart’s jealous suitor. The gambler had repaid Long John with an alligator farm in Florida and a packet of magic orange pips, or so he said. Of course, this being one of her father’s stories, who knew what parts, if any, were actually true? Was there a grain of truth anywhere there? He had demonstrated the carry to her that day. She prayed that it would work.
“Stop kicking and wriggling about,” she instructed, trying her best to sound calm.
“Now just let your body float up. Puff up your belly. See? You rises to the top.” Instantly, Villienne seemed to float much better.
“Hold fast,” she burbled, trying not to take in water herself as she pushed Villienne to the surface and threaded her arm under his left armpit, clasping his right shoulder firmly.
Would wonders never cease! Little Jane marvelled. Her father had told her the truth. (Well, about the carry at least, the verdict was still out on the magic orange pips). Due to the increased buoyancy of the human body in water in comparison to air, Little Jane could carry Villienne in a way she never could have on land. By kicking her legs and swimming with her free arm, Little Jane could pull him along.
As light as the weedy magistrate was, and despite the increased buoyancy of salt water, after several minutes his weight became too heavy for Little Jane. Gradually, stroke by stroke, they were starting to sink and more of the briny water was finding its way into Little Jane’s mouth. She felt like retching.
Villienne was horribly ashamed of being carried along in such an undignified manner, but it seemed there was no alternative. He desperately tried to will the land closer. Yet despite his plea, they didn’t seem to be getting any nearer to shore. In fact, they were barely maintaining their position as the current worked against their tired bodies, pushing them sideways, parallel with the shore. Silently, he cursed himself for ever having claimed he could swim. What in the world had possessed him? Perhaps, in that most secret corner of his self, he’d grown tired of writing about heroes and longed, if only for a one stupid, mistaken moment to actually be one.
Heroic aspiration aside, he now saw that if he continued to cling to Little Jane, he would end up dragging them both down to a watery grave.
“Jane,” he gasped when he saw her dark head surface. “You have to let me go. We’ll both sink if you keep this up.”
She paid him no mind and kept swimming.
It was hopeless. He turned away from the mighty volcanic mountain, ready to struggle free one last time, to sink himself on purpose and let her go on without him. It was then that he saw a very odd thing.
About a hundred yards away from where they struggled he saw a man — a man who appeared to be walking on water.
Villienne blinked, wondering if in his frenzied state he was hallucinating, but no, there was a man, a hearty, bare-chested fellow in breeches, strolling along as cheerfully as you please right on top of the waves. He wore a pair of spectacles that flashed in the sunlight, and now, as Villienne watched in amazement, he took them off to clean the lenses.
“Halloo there!” shouted Villienne. He waved his arms and splashed about in the water.
“What’re you doing?” spluttered Little Jane as the magistrate slipped straight through her arms.
Looking over Villienne’s head, she too was shocked by the strange vision of a shirtless man apparently hovering an inch above the sea.
“Hellooo!” shouted the Man-Who-Walked-on-Water.
As they got closer, Little Jane realized the man was actually standing on a rocky ledge in the water. But who was this man? Was he friend or foe?
“Villienne?” She turned, but he seemed to have slipped under the water again. Down she plunged after him.
As she pulled the soggy magistrate to the surface, he clawed the air like a man trying to climb an invisible ladder, his head still underwater. Together they struggled forward through the water, toward the man floating above them like a mirage.
Finally, Villienne bumped heavily into the rock wall. The man on the ledge helped as best he could as Villienne pulled himself up and onto it, thankful for its precious solidity.
Still coughing from all the water he’d swallowed, Villienne rolled over and sat up. Little Jane tried to pull herself out of the moat and onto the ledge beside him, but her numbed fingers couldn’t seem to find purchase on the slippery rock. Villienne watched as the Man-Who-Walked-on-Water leaned forward, locked his hands under Jane’s armpits, and pulled her up and out of the water. Little Jane let out a gasp as she flopped onto the slimy path like a fish pulled onto dry land.
She immediately began to cough, and the man crouched down and patted her gently on the back. Suddenly, Little Jane let out a loud burp and expelled a large amount of water in what Charity and Felicity would surely have condemned as an extremely unladylike gesture.
“Excuse her,” said Villienne, eager to preserve a veneer of politeness before the stranger who’d saved them.
“Ha! The Nameless Isle. What a place,” Little Jane said as she stretched out her arms to embrace the blue sky.
“Here, have a drink,” offered the Man-Who-Walked-on-Water. He held out a canteen to her.
Little Jane took the container and proceeded to gulp down a large quantity of the water before passing it to Villienne. “Thankee, sir,” she said to the man, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
Villienne drank the rest and turned to thank the man, but as he got a better look at their rescuer, his eyes nearly popped out of his head.
He opened his mouth, but what came out was unintelligible.
“Steady on. There’s a good fellow,” said the man calmly. “Now tell me, what’s the trouble?”
“It c-c-can’t b-b-be,” Villienne stuttered.
“Uh, your pardon, young sir,” the stranger said, turning to Little Jane. “But there appears to be something amiss with your companion. Is he sun-touched? Come, you can tell me. I’m a doctor.”
“Lewy, it’s me!” shouted Villienne, and he leapt to his feet to embrace the stranger.
“Wait. How do you know my name?”
“Oh, by Arbuthnot’s epistle,” groaned Villienne. “It’s me, Lewiston.”
“No, you’re not Lewiston, I’m Lewiston,” said the man. “Wait. Goodness, you’re —”
“Villienne!” shouted Villienne.
“My college roommate!” exclaimed Lewiston in disbelief.
“A little
moist, to be sure, but Sir Almost-Doctor Alistair Florence Virgil Villienne, all the same,” proclaimed the magistrate.
“As I live and breathe. Villy? It is you!” cried the astonished doctor. “You grew a moustache.”
“Yes,” crowed Villienne, beaming proudly. “Yes, I did.”
“But this is beyond belief. Fantastic. Stupendous.”
“Sublime,” added Villienne, laughing.
“Why, you sly fox. I knew someday our paths would cross again. Oh, I could tell there was greatness in this fellow,” Lewiston said to Little Jane. “Dear, dear Alistair. I knew you would do something wonderfully unorthodox with yourself. And lo and behold, here you are. But goodness, you’re soaked through. Did that frightful creature assault you as well?”
“What creature?” asked Little Jane, but the doctor was busy questioning Villienne.
“What are you doing here? Have you seen my captain? How did you find me? Do you think I’m much stouter than when you saw me last? What’s the word on those peculiar orange birds? Degenerate flamingos or something more sinister? Oh, forget all that.” Lewiston stopped himself at last and held his old friend at arm’s length. “Of all the awful, lonely places on earth to find a friend.” His eyes grew moist. “Come here.” He clasped Villienne in a clammy hug, holding the stunned magistrate as Little Jane looked on with growing impatience.
“Villienne,” Little Jane tugged on the magistrate’s jacket. “What’re you doing? We’ve no time for this. We need to —”
“You need to what?” Lewiston bent down to peer at Little Jane. “Who are you, little fellow?”
“I’m not a little fellow,” growled Little Jane, hands on her hips. “Me name’s Little Jane — no, Jane Silver,” she corrected herself. “And who’re you t’be asking?”
“My pardon for not introducing him sooner,” Villienne said. “Little Jane, this is the esteemed Dr. Samuel Lewiston, one of the founding members of the Edinburgh College Amateur Dramatic Society and a close friend from my university years.”
Little Jane and the Nameless Isle Page 12