Little Jane Silver

by Adira Rotstein

  Bonnie Mary sidled past him and he followed her behind the cutter, where they could confer in private.

  “What do you think?” she asked, a furrow of worry creasing her brow.

  Suddenly, she looked so pretty Long John just wanted to freeze everything and kiss her.

  She stared back at him. “What? What is it?”

  Long John shook his head. Danger always did the oddest things to him. “Somethin’ ain’t right here, Mary. That boat out there — don’t like the way she looks — too much like our own Pieces. I say we run.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Should they give chase—”

  “We’re sunk for sure,” she finished for him.

  “There is a little extra powder still in the cannons—”

  “And the private stash in the room for our pistols. I’ll get it. You hold the deck.”

  “What about Little Jane?”

  “I’ll send Mendoza to take her below decks when, I mean, if the time comes,” Bonnie Mary corrected herself.

  “She can stay in the kitchen,” Long John suggested. “If she needs protection, Ishiro’s got his knives down there.”

  “Wonderful,” she muttered darkly.

  “I don’t see what other choice we got, love.”

  “Aye,” she said softly. For a second she looked like she was going to cry, but then she broke his gaze and looked down. When he met her eyes again, her soul was steel. She turned resolutely toward the deck. Long John gave her hand a rough squeeze, one calloused palm to another, and they stepped out together, swords held high.

  “Let’s show ’er a clean pair o’ heels, men!” Captain Bright roared at them, her voice rising with the thrill of action.

  “Put your backs into it if ye want to see another day!”

  “Get those sails trim!”

  “Rufus, you too! Into the shrouds!”

  With Long John and Bonnie Mary supplanting Ned Ronk together, the Pieces was soon speeding along, its sails pregnant with wind.

  Most of the sailors were happy to leave the mysterious ship behind. All hands knew certain death when they saw it. Like madmen they worked, trying to capture every last gust of wind to bare them away from their pursuer.

  It seemed to be working, when, without warning, the wind ceased completely. At once the Pieces came to rest upon the water, her sails slack and drooping.

  Little Jane followed her mother, carrying her maps and nautical instruments, struggling to keep up as she zigzagged from one side of the ship to the other, giving orders to the gunner, weaponsmaster, sailmaker, caulker, and anyone else who came within shouting range. Sailors bustled about filling what weapons they could with the little powder they could muster.

  The weak wind did not seem to bother the other ship. Peering over the map that kept flying in her face, Little Jane watched the strange craft coming on at a steady clip. The two ships would surely meet if the wind did not pick up again.

  It has been said that nothing can underestimate the psychological impact of a really, really, really big gun.

  And whatever may be said of the strange ship that now pursued the Pieces, though she may’ve had her fill of leaky scuppers, noxious bilge water, and rusty bayonets, she did possess several certifiable leviathans of the cannonade variety. In short, even had the Pieces not been stripped of her gunpowder, the battle would still have been nasty, brutal, and short.

  On the Pieces, sailors kneeled with their weapons ready, fingers sweating on the triggers, each knowing they had but a single shot apiece. The mates and powder monkeys stood, knees tensed, prepared to start moving at the drop of a hat. The cannons were primed.

  A well-trained crew, thought Bonnie Mary with a touch of pride. Then again, a rifleman who could shoot the dot off an i at five hundred paces would be about as useful as a barrel of skunks at this point. Not that they hadn’t been in worse scrapes before, of course. She just couldn’t remember any—

  “Hold your fire!” roared Long John.

  “Wait for it!” thundered Bonnie Mary.

  The men held. They waited for it.

  As the enemy bore down on them, Little Jane felt her blood surge within her. The air sang with the electricity of anticipation. With Melvin clasped in one hand, and an unloaded yet supremely threatening-looking revolver in the other, Little Jane let a cruel sneer steal onto her otherwise childish features (she had been practising it in front of the mirror), as she scoffed at the impudence of this upstart ship that dared to threaten the mighty Pieces of Eight.

  “Whoever these blasted fools may be,” swore the impassioned voice of Little Jane, “they’ll taste their blood at the point of me sword! Eat cold steel, ye bleedin’ scoundrels!”

  “Mendoza!” Bonnie Mary barked. “Take ’er down below!”

  “Sorry, Captain,” muttered Mendoza and grabbed Little Jane. She was about to set off at full tilt for the galley, when Bonnie Mary stopped her with a single hand on her shoulder and looked Little Jane directly in the eye. Then she took the unloaded pistol from her.

  “Mama!” whined Little Jane, fully cognizant of just how undignified she looked. “I don’t want to—”

  “As Captain, I command you to—”

  “Yes?” asked Little Jane, perking up a bit.

  “To not to leave the galley for anything while the battle’s on, no matter what you hears going on up above.”

  “Sodding bilge on a stick!”

  “Unless this ship’s sinking or burning around you—” added Long John firmly, “you stay down there, do ya hear?”

  “Papa can I—”

  “Stay safe, me sweet bairn,” whispered Long John in a choked voice.

  “Be brave, love,” said Bonnie Mary. She squeezed her daughter tightly to her bosom and planted a strong kiss on her head. When her mother released her, Little Jane saw what no one else did — the sheen of tears in Bonnie Mary’s good hazel eye. At that moment Little Jane knew true fright.

  Then her father grinned and her mother winked at her, as they might on any day. “Best ye not see us give those blighters their just deserts!”

  And Mendoza took her down below.

  What is it like to endure a pitched battle going on directly over your head? For one thing, there are a lot of loud noises. Crashing, smashing, and screams of pain, fury, and mindless terror. Just how is one to know if a shout signals a man’s dying cry or the triumphant whoop of victory? How indeed.

  Listening to the chaos above her, Little Jane’s mind conjured up more horrific images of bloodshed with each successive sound. Finally, Little Jane stopped her ears with leftover mashed potatoes just to drown it out. With the sound lessened somewhat she tried to calm herself. At least she still had Melvin, whatever he was good for. There were bound to be other weapons in the kitchen, too, if she looked around. She had just found a small carving knife that might also be of some use, when an enormous THUMP interrupted her. The door to the galley burst open and Ishiro flew down the stairs. There was soot on his face and, though he wheezed heavily from the exertion, there was a wild look in his eyes.

  He pulled his massive meat cleaver from its resting place in the chopping block and grabbed a long, sharp skewer off its peg by the door.

  Little Jane shrank back in fright. Ishiro’s expression softened at the sight of her and he bent down to where she was sitting.

  “Are you all right, Little Jane? You’re not hurt?”

  Though she wanted with all her heart to grab the old cook then and there, though she longed to scream out Please, I’m scared! Don’t leave me here alone! and make him stay, with the calculating mind of the captain she might be someday, she knew the Pieces needed all the fighters it could spare.

  So, she found her voice, and though it nearly killed her to do so, Little Jane bravely said, “I’m all right. Go on.”

  That was all the prompting Ishiro seemed to need. With an agility far belying his advanced years, he rocketed up the stairs from the galley holding the enormous meat cleaver in one hand and
the metal skewer in the other, flung open the door to the deck and … and suddenly staggered back, clutching his chest.

  Little Jane screamed as Ishiro reeled back down the steps. He hit her like a sack of bricks at the bottom, bringing them both to the floor, the meat cleaver and sharp skewer flying out of his hands. Little Jane ducked as the meat cleaver embedded itself in the wooden wall behind her and the skewer clattered to the floor.

  Terrified, Little Jane pushed Ishiro’s body off her. The doorway to the deck yawned open above the stairs. She waited, legs tensed, for Ishiro’s invisible assailant to come for her next. Somehow, in the midst of the din, she could hear the rusty hinges creaking as the door moved back and forth and the sound of blood rushing past her ears. There had been no distinct crack of a pistol shot before Ishiro fell back, but that meant little; it could have been a sword thrust. Little Jane tried to pull the heavy meat cleaver out of the wall with no success. At last she grabbed the skewer and switched Melvin to her left hand.

  Heart knocking at her ribs, Little Jane stepped up the stairs to the doorway, but no adversary greeted her. She caught a glimpse of the melee on deck. Despite her brave intentions, that was enough for her. In a trice, she yanked the door back in place and ran down the stairs. Dropping Melvin and the skewer, she pulled the huge soup cauldron off the hearth and wedged it up on the narrow step to block the door. There, that ought to give the fools pause! Then she turned back to the galley and saw what she had briefly forgotten — Ishiro, lying senseless on the floor.

  A voice that was neither Bright’s nor Silver’s led a group in a cheer overhead. “Hip! Hip! Hooray! Hooray for the Panacea!”

  Little Jane barely noticed. Down in the galley of the Pieces of Eight she studied Ishiro with growing panic.

  His flesh looked odd, slack, and unanimated. His breathing was slow. Cold, unreasoning terror gripped Little Jane by the heart and she wondered if he was going to …

  Ishiro’s head moved. Though they spoke volumes in mute fear, his eyes began to track around the room.

  “Ishiro! Ishiro! What’s wrong? Where’re you wounded?”

  “Me chest,” he mumbled.

  Ishiro tried to stand, but merely gripped his chest once more and folded back upon his knees. He groaned and unbuttoned the front of his shirt. Little Jane braced herself for the sight of a horrific wound and saw … there was no blood.

  She stared in puzzlement at Ishiro’s wrinkled chest with its sparse grey hairs, for there was nothing there resembling a wound at all, not even a bruise.

  “Me heart,” he gasped and spoke a string of words in a language Little Jane did not understand, although she suspected they were Korean. His voice was slurred, as if he had been drinking. Eventually the pain written on his face subsided. “It’s quiet,” he said. “What’s happened?”

  “The battle’s over,” Little Jane said flatly. “I think we lost.”

  And then she began to cry.

  Chapter 12

  Panacea Triumphant

  The captain of the Panacea sat in his cabin, staring moodily through the wide bay window of his stateroom out at the Pieces of Eight. He had watched the entire battle from this room, skeletal hands curled over the arms of his chair, the flickering lights of weapons’ fire briefly illuminating the blackness of his pupils. And now the Pieces bobbed before him across the waves, not ten feet distant, her name proudly painted on her prow in letters of green and gold. His at last. Yet he felt no joy in his prize. No excitement, no elation. What was wrong?

  “The world is cruel,” squawked the parrot, Sartre, from his cage above where the captain sat, and the captain couldn’t help but nod in agreement. I should be ecstatic, drunk with victory, he thought once more, yet try as he might to arouse the suitable triumphant emotion, little seemed to animate his weary frame.

  A door hinge groaned in protest somewhere behind him. “Report,” he said without turning around.

  “Sir,” answered his first mate, Lieutenant Jesper. “The Pieces is taken, sir. We got the trait — I mean spy, Mr. Ronk, to identify Silver. We’re just rounding up the stragglers now. All enemy hands will soon be aboard.”

  “And?”

  Jesper shifted awkwardly. “Well me n’ the others was just wondering, sir, what is we to do with the ship?”

  The captain studied the Pieces of Eight, transfixed by the waves lapping gently at her bow.

  “Sink her,” he said softly.

  The first mate gaped. “What?”

  “Sink her,” the command was repeated.

  “But … but Captain!” Jesper protested. “She ain’t in bad shape! A plum prize for the Admiralty and—”

  “Are you deaf!” roared the captain. “I said sink her!”

  But the overexertion of his voice led the captain into a wracking fit of coughing so severe he appeared to be choking.

  The first mate took a step forward to help him, but the captain waved him away. He spat a repulsive mixture of blood and mucus into his handkerchief and waited for his speech to return. When it did, his voice was much distorted. Still, his words were unmistakable.

  “Sink her.”

  “Y-y-yes, Captain,” stammered Jesper. “I’ll prep the cannons.” Disturbed, he turned to leave, but the captain motioned him back.

  Hoping for a reprieve of the severe decree, Mr. Jesper pricked up his ears.

  “Sink her … yes,” the captain amended, “but set fire to her first.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, fire,” mused the captain. A skull’s ghastly grin spread briefly over his hollow features. “Let Bright and Silver watch her burn.”

  Back on the Pieces, Little Jane and Ishiro sat in the kitchen, unaware of the grim fate that awaited them.

  “What should we do?” asked Little Jane.

  Ishiro tried to answer, but the thunder of a cannon strike drowned out his reply.

  “What’re they doing now?”

  “They’re trying to sink us,” said Ishiro. “I don’t believe it!”

  Little Jane peered furtively out the door of the galley. Although there were signs of battle all over the place, she saw no sailors.

  She wondered if the Pieces had become a ghost ship. She knew about such things from an old mariner who used to hang around the Spyglass. He claimed to have voyaged all the way from the polar ice caps alone in a ship manned only by the spectres of his dead shipmates and a dachshund named Colin, but she’d always just assumed he was just after a free drink. Such stories couldn’t be true, could they? She shivered.

  Across the water, on the other ship’s deck, she spotted the shapes of her crewmates — the fluffy orange plume of her father’s favourite hat unmistakable even at a distance. She shook her head in disbelief. Nobody could capture her father … could they?

  Suddenly, the ship shuddered around her, nearly shaking her clear off her feet. She caught a whiff of the strong scent of candles and burning wood. In an instant, she was transported back to the Spyglass, Jonesy lighting the tapers in the creaky old chandelier, a toasty fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth while the rain pattered down outside on the windows. For the briefest moment she felt cozy and safe and then she realized what she smelled burning wasn’t a bunch of logs, but the Pieces of Eight itself!

  Burning! On fire! Again!

  Ishiro’s nose, too, now registered the acrid smell in the air.

  “What?” he began slowly.

  “We’re aflame! We have to get off the ship!” screamed Little Jane in panic.

  “We can use the cutter,” he suggested.

  Little Jane nodded numbly.

  “Now help me up,” he said gruffly. Ishiro winced as Little Jane pulled him to his feet. He barely had time to clutch his chest in pain once more before she began shoving him roughly up the stairs.

  “Stop!” he gasped. “I’ll go under me own power.” And he gathered up the last of his strength and stumbled up the steps ahead, suddenly a thin, frail old man.

  “Let’s just hope the cutter’s
still there.”

  The cutter was indeed still there, winched up tight to the railings, sails neatly tied and folded. The only problem was the hole through her hull the size of Little Jane’s fist.

  “Sod it!”

  “What about the jollyboat?”

  They looked toward the stern, where the jollyboat was, but that entire area of the ship was engulfed in flames.

  “Nothing for it, it’ll have to do” muttered Ishiro. We’re done for, he thought with a sudden burst of fatalism, but bit his tongue upon seeing the terrified look on Little Jane’s face. “Don’t worry, Sa-rang,” he said tenderly. “I’ve come through worse.”

  “Get in the boat,” said Little Jane calmly. “I’ll go after.”

  “You will bloody well not!”

  “Get in the boat,” she said.

  “I’m charged with your safety, Jane! I can’t allow—”

  “Listen! We can’t both lower the boat down and then jump in after it!” she explained. “And we can’t both get in because then there’ll be no one left onboard to lower it down to the water!”

  “Don’t be daft! I’m expendable! You’re not!”

  “Aye, but I can swim,” Little Jane informed him tartly.

  “What of it?”

  “I ain’t going to—”

  “Don’t be so childish!” he snapped. “It’s not—”

  But Little Jane didn’t want to spend the rest of the day arguing over whose plan they’d follow while the ship burned around them and the hole in the cutter failed to get any smaller. So she did the only sensible, un-childish thing she could do in the circumstances: she pushed Ishiro into the boat. He sat down hard, stunned. Then she pulled on the ropes to lower the cutter down. The cutter was heavy, but at least it was moored on the side away from the Panacea, allowing them to get down to the water out of sight of the enemy. The smoke of the fire, though awful to inhale, proved just what they needed to cover their escape.

  Protesting all the way, Ishiro was lowered jerkily down with the cutter. Finally, with one last spasmodic tug from an exhausted Little Jane, the boat hit the waves.