The Wendy

by Sky, Erin Michelle; Brown, Steven;

  “I'll need a sword, of course,” she was saying, mostly to herself. “Something light. And a musket. Or perhaps a pistol. Which would be better, I wonder, for a sea battle? Do you think they’ll allow us both?”

  This last was addressed to John. “I’m sure it depends on the size of the armory on board,” he replied. “On a ship, it’s all a matter of space.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Wendy agreed. “I understand perfectly. But it is a rather large ship, isn’t it?”

  Unfortunately, John was certain she didn’t understand the most important bit at all. He and Michael might recognize Wendy’s true potential, after having served with her and having seen what she was capable of, but the same could not be said for the rest of the men in the Home Office. The quartermaster was only going to see a woman. And he was not going to allow a woman to draw any weapons whatsoever, let alone two of them.

  “It’s a fighting ship, John!” Michael protested. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we each get two swords! And two pistols!”

  John shot him a warning glance, but Michael didn’t notice.

  “I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Thomas offered, looking a bit worried. “Are we really expecting to need swords? And firearms? It seems a bit extreme.”

  “Yes, Thomas,” Wendy said firmly. She placed her right hand within the crook of his arm and patted his elbow with her left. “The everlost are not the only threat we will face at sea. There are pirates. And French gunships. And who knows what sort of creatures we might encounter living among the everlost? Every hand must be ready to defend the ship by force, if need be. We must all be prepared.”

  “Well, if you say so, Miss Darling. But my expertise lies in science, I’m afraid, not armaments.” He shrugged and grinned down at her, apparently unconcerned by the admission.

  “Just ask for a sword and a musket,” Wendy advised him. “I can show you how to use them. You’ll need to be armed for any landing party.”

  “Oh! Of course I want to be in the landing party!” Thomas came to a sudden halt, dropping his arm from hers and turning to face her in earnest. “The scientists among the everlost are clearly aware of forces that are beyond our grasp! I must be allowed to meet them! To learn from them!”

  “Scientists?” Wendy started, but then she trailed off. She didn’t see the need to start a debate over science and magic when Thomas would learn the truth about that soon enough.

  “Yes, well, you’ll need to be armed to leave the ship,” she said instead. “So if you want to meet … any of the everlost, allow the quartermaster to assign you a sword at least. Preferably a musket as well.”

  “As you say,” Thomas agreed, already grinning again.

  Meet them? John and Michael both wondered. I thought we were trying to kill them. But they kept this thought to themselves.

  They arrived at the armory to find the quartermaster already scowling. He was a portly man with jet black hair, beady eyes, and habitually angry jowls that had taken an instant dislike to the entire party—and that seemed perfectly willing to make their opinion known. Whether they were more offended by the woman or by the dog was hard to say, but Wendy had her suspicions.

  Nevertheless, she smoothed her dress and forged ahead, ignoring the nervous glances that both John and Michael were now aiming at each other.

  “We were told to report for the crew of The Dragon,” Wendy began. “To draw arms for the journey.”

  “They might be drawing arms,” he said, whipping his jowls toward the men behind her, “but you won’t.”

  “I assure you—” Wendy insisted, speaking calmly but firmly.

  “And I assure you,” he snapped, interrupting her, “that I won’t be issuing any arms to a woman! If you don’t need ’em, you don’t get ’em. And you don’t need ’em.”

  Wendy’s eyes narrowed immediately, and you can imagine how her eyebrow felt about the subject. Girls can’t be in the navy! Girls take care of babies! The taunts of her childhood echoed across the years.

  Well, not today, she thought to herself. Not anymore.

  “I am as much a part of this crew as anyone else!” she proclaimed, standing straighter and raising her voice.

  “You can have my sword,” Thomas offered, shifting from foot to foot even more awkwardly than usual. “I didn’t want one anyway.”

  “You can have my sword,” Michael chimed in, not to be outdone by Thomas. “In fact, I’ll draw any weapon you like.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Wendy and the quartermaster both declared at once, causing them to glare at each other with even more venom than before.

  Nana started to growl low in her throat, and John was about to step between Wendy and the quartermaster to prevent any possible fisticuffs when Hook’s menacing baritone bellowed out behind them all.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Captain!” the quartermaster answered, and he snapped out a smart salute. “This woman was trying to draw arms for The Dragon, sir. As if you would allow such a thing!”

  “Was she?” Hook regarded Wendy with only the smallest hint of a smile. He had arrived with another man in tow, one whom Wendy had never seen before. She would not usually ignore introductions—Wendy hated rudeness of any kind—but at the moment she was rather worked up.

  “I was,” she affirmed, her chin thrust defiantly before her. “It would be foolish to leave any able-bodied sailor unarmed in the event of a sea battle, and I was about to assure this man that you are no fool.”

  At this Hook laughed out loud. “Well said, Miss Darling! That would be foolish indeed! But how am I to know whether you are able-bodied? For all I know, you would be no more help than a monkey. A clever pet, to be sure, but hardly worthy of the king’s steel in battle.”

  Wendy thought of at least a hundred things she wanted to say in the space of a single blink, but to her credit she discarded them all. He was baiting her, and she would not lose her temper. Not in front of her men. For that was how she thought of John and Michael and Nana—and now Thomas, as well.

  Instead, she said only this: “Then let us prove it. But if I succeed, you will allow me to draw my own weapons, like any other man on the crew.”

  “And how will you prove it, little monkey?” Hook asked, drawing a smirk from his man behind. The newcomer looked no older than John, standing about average height, with dark hair and dark eyes, a barrel chest and a small button nose, and an unusually wide mouth.

  “I shall fight him,” Wendy announced, indicating whom she meant with a nod of her head. This was a bit impetuous, to say the least, as she had no idea who the man was. But his smirk reminded her of Mortimer Black, the boy from the orphanage all those years ago, so she disliked him immediately.

  “Smee?” Hook asked, laughing even harder.

  “Do you agree to my terms?” Wendy demanded.

  “Oh, I most certainly do,” Hook affirmed, and he waved the man forward.

  They were each permitted their blade of choice. Smee chose a dull, training version of a British spadroon with a basket hilt, while Wendy selected a French smallsword that had obviously been liberated from the enemy. Because it was not a training sword, she requested John’s neck scarf to wrap around the end, to which John readily agreed.

  As they squared off in the hallway, Hook addressed his man.

  “Use the left,” he said, by which he meant the left hand. “Let’s at least give her a chance, shall we?” But of course Hook didn’t intend to give Wendy a chance at all. He only meant to humiliate her, and he grinned at her wickedly to prove it.

  “Prepare yourself!” she declared, and Smee barely had time to raise his weapon before she aimed her silk-tipped sword at his heart.

  He fended off the blow just in time, raising his own sword to catch her blade so that it slid away harmlessly along the steel. He moved immediately into a thrust, but Wendy anticipated it, flipping her weapon upside-down over his, pushing his spadroon harmlessly beyond her side while aiming at his gu
t.

  She had him already, and she knew she had him, but she disengaged before she connected, taking three quick steps backward in the classic fencing style that Monsieur Dumas had helped her to perfect.

  “’Twas luck, girl, and nothing more,” Smee growled, his accent marking him as an Irishman, but Wendy made no reply other than to raise a contrary eyebrow. Smee narrowed his eyes, thrust out his chin, and charged, swinging his blade fast and hard, chopping in a backhanded sweep toward her left side.

  Wendy knew she didn’t have the strength to block such a wide blow directly, but she had trained for this. She dropped to her knees to duck his swing and raised her smallsword over her head, guiding his steel away rather than fighting against it. Suddenly, his longer weapon was not a blessing but a curse. She sprang back to her feet, flicked the tip of her thin blade inside his ornamental hilt, slid the smallsword as far as it would go, and used the leverage of her position to wrench the spadroon from his grasp.

  Again she quick-stepped backward, this time removing his sword from her own and lobbing it back to him in a gentle arc. His eyes flicked toward Hook, who offered a small, grim nod. Smee tossed the sword lightly from his left hand to his right, and Wendy smiled.

  He came at her with four fast jabs, but the smallsword was by far the more agile weapon, which was why Wendy had chosen it. Again she used Smee’s momentum against him, guiding his blade harmlessly away, first to one side and then the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. With each failed thrust he became more enraged, extending his reach that much farther, until finally he stepped too close.

  Before his foot could plant, Wendy snapped her own foot up and out, blocking him at the ankle. He stumbled, falling hard to the right, and he dropped his sword to catch himself.

  With a triumphant smile, Wendy touched the tip of her silk-wrapped blade lightly to his side.

  “Now then,” she said, “I believe we had a deal.”

  he deal, you might remember, was only for weapons. But Hook had tried to humiliate Wendy, and now he looked like a fool. He took a deep breath, containing his fury. Only a subtle twitch of his left eye gave any hint of the storm that raged within. But rage, it did. And sometimes when people are angry, they say things they don’t mean. Things they might even come to regret.

  What Hook said was this: “Let her draw whatever she wants.”

  Then he stalked away, ordering Smee to follow.

  Wendy smiled.

  She kept the smallsword and drew a musket and two pistols besides. She also drew a belt and a new pair of tall boots. It was not unusual for boys to enlist at a fairly young age, and the quartermaster stocked all manner of gear in smaller sizes to accommodate the practice.

  He balked when she asked for several pairs of breeches along with a small stack of shirts and vests, but Wendy narrowed her eyes and said firmly, “His order was to let me draw what I wish. Shall we call him back to clarify?”

  The man grumbled and glared, his jowls quiveringly indignant, but he stepped aside nonetheless, allowing her to peruse the aisles at will.

  In the end, she emerged with a towering stack of items, including several fresh, leather-bound journals; as many ink bottles as she could reasonably carry; and an exquisite pocket watch, its casing forged in silver so it wouldn’t rust in the sea air. She had also claimed any equipment she thought might be useful to Thomas for his experiments; an extra sword and pistol each for John and Michael; and even a new, leather collar for Nana, who donned it with pride.

  Finally, she requisitioned four large sea chests—humble but strong—to house their stockpile of treasure.

  They filled the chests and lumbered off together, straining under the burden of their loot. Michael glanced back, just once, to aim a final, smug grin at the scowling quartermaster before launching into a sea shanty at the top of his lungs.

  Her sails raised by sailors’ hands,

  Her sturdy deck beneath our feet,

  She’ll carry us to distant lands,

  Our sailing ship, fine and fleet!

  A sailing ship! A life at sea!

  A sailing ship for me!

  John and Wendy responded with the answering chorus, singing just as loudly:

  A sailing ship! A life at sea!

  A sailing ship for me!

  Thomas joined in, too, providing harmony in a smooth baritone that raised Wendy’s eyebrow in approval. Even Nana howled along with the rest—entirely off key, but with obvious feeling.

  When they reached their quarters, the men left Wendy alone with Nana to change. They remained in the hallway for what seemed an eternity, so that by the time Wendy opened the door again, John was sitting on the floor, and Thomas was lying flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Only Michael was still on his feet, leaning jauntily against the wall across from the doorway, but even he was not prepared for the sight they beheld.

  Wendy was radiant.

  Her charcoal-gray breeches were tucked into tall, black leather boots. The sleeves of a man’s white linen shirt peeked out from beneath a cream silk vest, which was embroidered lightly in the same color. A black leather belt held her bare sword in a metal ring at her left hip, with a pistol cinched high on each outer thigh.

  She had fashioned a sort of sheath for her musket out of black leather, with a strap that hung over her left shoulder, crossing her chest and fastening to her belt on her right. The gun was secured in the sheath upon her back, its stock protruding above her left shoulder.

  She was dressed entirely in a man’s clothing, but not one of the men in the hallway thought he had ever seen a woman more beautiful in all his life.

  John and Thomas rose to their feet, and then all three stood transfixed, without saying a word, until Thomas lowered himself to one knee before her.

  John and Michael sprang into action, grabbing him by the shoulders and shouting, “What?” and “No!” respectively, to which Thomas looked up in confusion.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Should I leave it there?”

  “Leave what where?” John demanded.

  “Your neck scarf,” Thomas replied, pointing to the delicate silk that was still wrapped securely over the tip of Wendy’s sword.

  John and Michael both sighed in relief.

  “Just leave it there,” John muttered. “It’s fine where it is.”

  “All right, then.” Thomas shrugged and stood back up, while Wendy hid a delicate smile, her secret kiss dancing softly in the far corner.

  Tomorrow! We sail tomorrow!

  Every time she thought it, a thrill raced from the top of Wendy’s skull down her spine, only to settle, fluttering, in the pit of her belly. She wanted more than anything to stay with the others through the evening. To marvel with them over the possibilities. Where would Pan’s strange device lead them? And what would they find when they arrived?

  But she had made a promise to a friend, and Wendy intended to keep it. So instead of staying and wondering aloud over the likelihood of discovering giants or ogres or witches or trolls, Wendy retired to the quarters she had been assigned alone, as the only woman in a crew of men. And she began to write a letter.

  My Dear M. Dumas,

  I am writing, as promised, to assure you that all is well. We succeeded, and I am safe among friends. I wish I could tell you that I will be visiting soon, to thank you in person for your unparalleled kindness, but I shall not be returning to Hertfordshire within the foreseeable future.

  I find myself on the brink of a tremendous journey, one which will take me far from England’s shores. Perhaps only you, of all the people I have ever known, will truly understand what I am feeling in this moment. The excitement of it. And the uncertainty. To leave all that is home—perhaps forever—but also to embrace the unfamiliar with joy and wonder. I am nervous, certainly. But I am unafraid.

  No matter what happens, I would make no other choice. I must follow my heart. I know that you will understand this too. But I do hope that we will see each other
again. Truly.

  I owe you a far greater debt than I fear I can ever repay.

  Your friend,

  Wendy Darling

  If the details were a bit scarce, M. Dumas would assume it was because she did not want to write openly of her beloved Frenchman and their plans to escape. And if anyone intercepted the missive, it was innocent enough—a final letter to a friend, to ensure he did not come looking for her. Even the Home Office would approve of that intent.

  Satisfied, she folded the page and sealed it in wax. But there was one more letter she needed to write—one that held even more meaning for her, but which needed to be even more discreet. She thought for a long time before finally placing her pen to a second sheet of paper. On it, she wrote only this:

  You were right. I found a way.

  Thank you,

  W.

  She addressed the envelope to “Mr. Gustavus Vassa,” to be sure it reached him, and added “Mr. Olaudah Equiano” in parentheses beneath. Then she stretched her legs beneath the writing desk and felt the heels of her new boots scrape along the floor, making her grin all over again. She had disarmed herself for the evening but had refused to change out of her new outfit.

  These were the clothes of a journey. They were clothes of strength and adventure. Clothes she had spent a lifetime fighting for. She snuffed out the candle and lay down on the bed without taking off her boots. They were brand new, after all. They had never even touched a street.

  But that would change soon enough.

  Tomorrow, she would wear them in the streets of London. And at the docks. She would wear them as she set foot upon the deck of The Dragon for the very first time. She lay in bed imagining it, watching a small sliver of moonlight creep along the wall until she finally fell asleep.

  But in all of her imagining, not once did she imagine the surprise that lay in store for her in the morning.

  t was time.