Little Jane Silver

by Adira Rotstein

  Desperately, he ransacked his brain for a story, a saucy limerick, anything! Nothing. The well was dry. For the first time in his existence, Jim Silver found himself without so much as two amusing observations to rub together. Every bit of him felt old, worn out beyond all sense of exhaustion.

  He saw Bonnie Mary sitting across from him. Noting his despair, she reached out her hand to him.

  Let me share your thoughts, her eyes said. Let my comfort slide down to you through the thread of love between us.

  But he looked aside, feeling more despicable than he’d ever felt in the many years of his lawless career. I deserve no love from you, his eyes told her. How can you still look at me so tenderly, when I’ve so utterly failed you? And for the second time, no less. It’s my fault. I were supposed to protect you, Bonnie Mary. Supposed to protect our Little Jane. Me father were right, all them years ago. He knew me better’n I did. “Too soft to be a captain. People’ll get hurt if you take the wheel,” he said of me, and he was right.

  Doc Lewiston noted the furrow of pain on his patient’s brow as he tightened the bandages to secure the Long John’s thigh to the splint he’d hastily constructed, assuming his own medical ministrations to be the cause. In reality, Long John had barely noticed what the doctor was up to, so absorbed was he in his own sorrow over Little Jane and Bonnie Mary.

  Doc Lewiston cast about in vain for a topic to distract the man, settling at last for the thing most directly at hand, or rather actually in his hand at the moment.

  “You know, I’ve never seen the like in all my years as a naval physician,” he said conversationally. “What exactly happened to you anyway?”

  “Eh?” asked the miserable, distracted pirate.

  “He wants to know how you lost your leg, Jim,” added Bonnie Mary encouragingly. “Tell him the story. You know, the Australian alligators, the haunted island, the sorcerer …”

  But Jim just closed his eyes and sagged against the slimy wall of the cell. He was so tired. Tired of telling stories, tired of always putting on a show, tired of being Long John Silver and everything that came with it, wishing he was far, far, away, some place other than here, in somebody’s skin other than his own.

  “Yes, my good man, tell me how it happened,” said the expectant physician.

  But Jim just shook his head and slumped against the wall in defeat. “I don’t know,” he said. “I honestly don’t know.”

  The doctor frowned, unaware that for once in his life Long John Silver had actually spoken the truth.

  Chapter 16

  Dropping Anchor

  The Medusa dropped anchor the next day in Smuggler’s Bay. Jonesy was there waiting for it, though he had no idea Little Jane and Ishiro were onboard.

  It was a perfectly clear day with little wind. The strange fishing boat had been spotted by one alert villager hours before. With the Pieces of Eight out of dock, business was poor. An influx of fishermen might at least be induced to buy a few brews, Jonesy reasoned. Of course, the last person in the world he expected to see step out of the Medusa was Little Jane.

  As soon as she got close enough to touch him, Little Jane stretched her arms around Jonesy’s thick waist and cried. Somehow the gentle touch of his big arms around her shook loose all the tears she’d been conserving the past few days and she sobbed like any heartbroken sailor in his cups.

  The Hallbrooks had constructed a makeshift stretcher for Ishiro from two harpoons and some old fishing nets, but he insisted on making his way up to the Spyglass under his own power. Upon reaching the tavern he sank into one of the chairs by the fire in a state of utter exhaustion and was instantly asleep.

  Little Jane wanted to sleep, too, but there was a lot to explain to Jonesy.

  The Hallbrooks were given food, drink, and beds. Word went out quickly to the citizens of Smuggler’s Bay about the calamity that had befallen the Pieces. Soon the inn was crowded with people. Jonesy tried to shoo them away, but everybody in town seemed to have at least one family member, relative, acquaintance, or person who owed them money on that ship. They had as much right to know as anyone.

  Little Jane managed to help Ishiro to his room. At least there he’d be away from the noise and the chatter. Gently, she laid his head down upon the pillow. There were purplish-grey circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there a few days before and she could have sworn more of his silky black hair had gone to white.

  She clenched her hands together and realized she was still holding Melvin. The strange wooden sword had kept her afloat in the ocean, but she still had little affection for it. Masthead east lamp Vergiloo in NaKika, indeed!

  She went up to her parents’ room to put him away. She sat on her parents bed, too emotionally exhausted to go back downstairs. Her glance fell upon the old pair of haughty-eyed china dogs still sitting patiently at either side of the fireplace, porcelain fangs bared, pink-glazed tongues lolling out, in patient anticipation of their masters’ return. Every single object in that room was saturated with the essence of her Mama and Papa, from the discarded handkerchief on the nightstand to their betrothal portraits on the wall.

  The very air itself seemed to cloud with her parents’ mingled scents of shaving lotion, greased fat, salt water, and lilac perfume. The objects in the room seemed to press in on her as they cried out in anger, How could you leave them? There upon the enemy’s ship? How could you let them go? The two wooden clothes hooks with their names carved above them, the mucky clogs that sat on the straw mat below, an unfinished carving of a dolphin, left half-trapped in its block of wood by her father, a green silk shawl with golden tassels left unworn by her mother, all sat in judgement, accusing her.

  Among the Hallbrooks on the Medusa or in the Spyglass with Jonesy it was easy to forget, to push her worries away, but here, alone …

  What if they never come back? she couldn’t help thinking and a sweeping wave of panic overwhelmed her. She flopped down on her little bed, a thousand horrible scenarios cycling through her weary brain. She could see the news-sheets now: Bright and Silver, shot, keel-hauled, hung, flogged, or drowned. She saw them take that long walk to the gallows, cursing her, little weak-minded fool. She saw them lying on filthy straw in prison, sick and wounded, her mum’s poor milky eye weeping — Where are you Little Jane? Help us! Why didn’t you help us!

  And it was no use admitting the truth — that she was only a little girl in pants with a wooden sword, who could no more go up against a mighty ship and its well-armed crew than an ant against a lion!

  Unconsciously, Little Jane’s hands scrambled under the bedclothes until they felt the softness of a familiar shape. It was Seurat, the old stuffed rat her mother had made for her when she was a baby. Bonnie Mary had made him out of a gentleman’s worsted stocking stuffed with cotton batting, with brass buttons for eyes. He was as old as Little Jane herself, and looked it. She pulled Seurat out from under the pillow. He seemed smaller somehow today. It had been many a day since she had cried into Seurat’s lumpy stocking body over what now seemed like trivial concerns. Today she managed to drench the unfortunate creature straight through with her tears and had to wring him out, he grew so wet.

  What would a real pirate do in such a situation? She tried to think, but nothing came to her. All she knew was that something had to be done. Little Jane listened to Jonesy and the others commiserate downstairs with rising anger. They were supposed to be people of action, daring gentlemen of fortune! Men of action weren’t supposed to sit around the fire, chewing the fat, not doing a thing! How could everyone be content just to let it all happen, waiting to see how it all played out?

  Well, Little Jane for one was not content to “wait and see,” not by a long shot! There had to be someone she could appeal to! Someone with more control and more authority than she had. Someone with enough pull to get her parents back. Someone, at least, who could help make Ishiro better. Wasn’t there anyone in charge?

  And then, suddenly, to her surprise, she realized there was.

&nb
sp; At that moment, the man officially in charge of Smuggler’s Bay was busy sitting on a nice smooth rock in the middle of a pleasant green field, writing a letter to his mum.

  One of his great pleasures in being magistrate of a small island nation was the ability to use his official British magistrate’s seal as much as he pleased. It was made of real gold and worn about the neck on a gold chain like a king’s medallion. To use the official seal, all one had to do was melt a goodly quantity of wax and stick the seal into it. When the wax dried, one was left with a very impressive symbol of Britannia, with Latin verbs coming out of her ears, holding a British flag in one hand and a cricket bat in the other.

  The only problem was, that with such a small and relatively peaceful island to look after, there were not many orders that require the impressive looking seal. Thus Sir Almost-Doctor Alistair Florence Virgil Villienne employed it chiefly in sealing his many “official” dispatches to his family and friends back in England.

  He had tried his hand only once at epic poetry since arriving on Smuggler’s Bay, but as his grand epic poem had quickly devolved into a rather tiresome tale about a chicken that laid golden eggs, he was secretly pleased when one of the servants he was constantly hiding from accidentally incinerated it in the cookstove.

  It was his letters, along with his “Complete and Annotated History of Smuggler’s Bay,” (which was neither complete nor annotated), and various explosive projects in the chemical sciences, that were his chief occupation when he wasn’t busy attempting to govern the patently ungovernable citizens of Smuggler’s Bay. With little to report, his letters home had grown increasingly inventive as time went on. So far, his current letter read:

  Dearest Mumsy,

  Having a spiffing good time being magistrate of my own small island nation.

  Please convey my best wishes to Rupert on his union with our charming cousin Merribel. My profuse apologies that I could not be there in person, but I’m sure that fellow you picked up at the sanatorium acquitted himself quite nobly in my place. Hope they have a delightful honeymoon on the continent, although please caution them that if they should stay in Dijon, to avoid eating any pale blue cheese .

  The weather here in Smuggler’s Bay is frightfully sunny. As you know, I have a grand domicile with lovely, well-appointed rooms, one of which I have even converted into a capital laboratory for my experiments. The shipment of guaranteed non-combustible graduated cylinders I ordered from Dunlop and Sons is arriving on the packet next week and I am just beside myself with anticipation!

  Lastly, in response to your query, Mum, no, the island is not infested with pirates. What you’ve heard is simply a parcel of colourful old legends told to susceptible foreigners to drum up tourism. Not a jot of truth to it, I’m afraid. The people here are mostly fishermen, salt of the earth types with good family values, fond of Shakespeare readings, violin recitals, and spirited games of charades. While it is true they do have some strange savage notions — foregoing vinegar in favour of ketchup on their chips, I am sorry to say — by and large they are civilized folk with excellent taste in furniture.

  Cheers and fondest regards,

  Toodle-pip,

  Your son, Al

  With this important duty discharged, Villienne picked up his paper, his pen, and his pot of ink and headed back up the hill toward the magistrate’s mansion to properly seal his letter.

  Little Jane had met the magistrate down at the Spyglass a few times, but had never presumed to call on him at home. Oh, she had seen the mansion, sitting high atop the hill as it did, one couldn’t help but see it — but go inside? Never.

  She supposed there must be many old paintings on the walls and strange biting animals in cages and chamber pots of solid gold. At least that’s what her Papa said.

  Certainly, if this was true, she knew she had nothing to fear. She was not the least bit perturbed by old paintings, found strange biting animals amusing, and looked forward to utilizing a chamber pot of solid gold. So why did she feel so nervous after trekking the half-mile up the mountain?

  No matter. Little Jane pushed aside her apprehension. She stepped up to the enormous lion’s head knocker on the door, grabbed it in both fists and slammed it down as hard as she could. She felt the sound shudder through the door’s old wooden frame and echo down the many corridors inside. Later, for what would be but one of 11,328 times in her life, Little Jane wished that her Papa had simply told her the truth about the mansion.

  The fact was that something much worse than biting animals in cages lurked within, for who should answer Little Jane’s knock but the two nastiest people ever to have lived in Smuggler’s Bay over the island’s entire checkered history. The two nastiest people in all of Smuggler’s Bay were not, as you may have incorrectly guessed, pirates, nor were they smugglers, colonizers, cut-throats, stock brokers, lawyers, and/or thieves. Nothing of the sort. In fact, the two nastiest people in all of Smuggler’s Bay were thirteen-year-old twin girls named Charity and Felicity.

  Their mother was Bertina, the housekeeper of the mansion, once the flower of Dominica, a famous beauty and the former magistrate Dovecoat’s wife in all but name. Like their mother, Charity and Felicity were slim and graceful, but not the least bit charitable or felicitous. Bertina had always disapproved of her daughters playing with the village children on the grounds that they were entirely too uncouth and common for her girls, so each sister had grown up in the illustrious and completely hateful company of the other. Safe to say, neither one had profited much from the association.

  Charity and Felicity stared at Little Jane as she stood on the doorstep. They wore identical blue seersucker dresses with starched pinafores of spotless white. Their curls were done up in perfectly coiled cylinders, with precisely four to each side of the head. They favoured Little Jane with smug smiles, which, ladylike as they were, revealed no teeth. Above these smiles, their eyes were a tawny-gold colour, like the eyes of predatory jungle cats.

  “Yesss?” they asked, in a single, sibilant voice. The white bows at the backs of their dresses nearly swished to and fro with anticipation.

  “Please,” faltered Little Jane, her throat gone cracked and dry. “I need your help!”

  “Does this look like an alms house to you?” asked Charity sweetly.

  “I suggest you go beg in the village,” proffered Felicity and politely began to close the door in Little Jane’s face. The twins generally found this to be a foolproof technique for dispatching inconsequential people who came to beg a moment of the magistrate’s time. Unfortunately, anyone who was not a highly marriageable English gentleman in possession of sizeable fortune qualified as such to them.

  Little Jane wedged herself firmly into the doorjamb and declared, “I haven’t come to beg! I need to talk to the magistrate! It’s a matter of grave importance!”

  “Get your filthy hands off our genuine oak door!” snapped Charity as she and Felicity continued to press firmly against the door knob with Little Jane still wedged stubbornly in place.

  “Bloody hell!” Little Jane gasped as the twins shoved together against the door, squeezing the air out of her lungs.

  The twins looked at each other with identically shocked expressions.

  “You shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Our mother shall be very cross with you when she hears what you’ve exposed our delicate lady’s ears to, you vomitous pile of brainless maggot spawn!”

  “You know, that don’t even make sense,” commented Little Jane, who despite being wedged in a heavy oak door was momentarily deluded into thinking she had the upper hand.

  “Well neither does this,” said Felicity and gave the door one final shove. Little Jane noticed that the twins even managed to shove in a ladylike fashion, without so much as wrinkling their starched aprons. But this time, rather than risk being cut in two by the door, Little Jane allowed herself to fly out of the doorjamb with an aggravated POP!

  She landed stunned on the porch, knocking over a pot of cassava
lilies as she went down, at which point a perfectly curled head emerged from the second floor balcony window to say coldly, “Your filthy hands will have to pay for those!” The window then snapped shut, leaving Little Jane entirely alone.

  “Please!” Little Jane shouted out desperately in the direction of the vanished head.

  Nothing.

  “My parents’ ship’s been sunk and they’re kidnapped along with the entire crew of the Pieces of Eight!” yelled out Little Jane like a town crier. “And Ishiro is down at the Spyglass sick and like to die! Come on! I know you know who I am! I’m Jane Irene Amelia Silver, crewmember of the Pieces of Eight! The most frightsome feck to sail the seven seas! The buccaneer scourge of the Royal Navy! The piratical colossus of the ocean tides! You let me in to see the magistrate right now, you foul wenches, or I’ll—”

  But the two sisters never got to find out just what Little Jane would threaten to do to them, for just then Charity opened the second floor window and dumped out the previous night’s kitchen waste upon Little Jane’s head. It was lucky Little Jane had the presence of mind to leap back immediately after this assault, for she was only just in time to avoid what Felicity dumped out of the window to the water-closet a moment later — something much worse than mouldy table scraps. Safe to say, Little Jane now knew her father had lied about the solid gold chamber pots, as well.

  Chapter 17

  Long John’s Story

  Doc Lewiston watched as Darsa, the Panacea’s cabin boy, poured the steaming hot water into the half-barrel tub. Lewiston then ground down the mixture of mallow, eucalyptus, lavender, pine, and rosemary with his pestle into a fine powder. This task accomplished, he sprinkled the compound into the tub. A pungent odour rose up, accompanying the steam to fill the small room.