Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl

by Leigh Statham

  While the British had always groped and fought over the best French tutors for their children, believing fluent French was a sign of culture and sophistication, the French never bothered with learning English. To Marguerite it sounded short and clipped, an ugly language lacking emotion. Still, she enjoyed reading some of the English authors in their original texts, and occasionally there was an interesting article published on engineering in England, so she’d taken the time to learn enough to understand. But she wasn’t anywhere near fluent enough to bargain her way out of this mess.

  A loud man barked next to Marguerite’s ear as he pulled her to her feet.

  “Send word to Captain Douleur. We’ll throw her in the brig till we get orders. In the meantime, clean this blooming mess up!” Her head throbbed, and her vision was still blurry, but things were starting to come into focus. Whoever was supporting her took her by both arms now and held her in front of him.

  “Ain’t you a pretty little suicider then? Musta done something stupid, or you’re just plain crazy, to be assigned the first strike against the meanest pirate rig in the Atlantic. Eh?” She blinked at him and tried to make out his face. Her goggles were still firmly in place, however, and she realized one reason she couldn’t see was because they were fogged up with the foul breath of the man examining her.

  “Those is nice glasses you got there. I think I’ll have them for me self.” He reached out and plucked the goggles from her face and looked them over carefully. Marguerite could see clearly now. He was a hulking British man covered in soot and grease; hair cut short—a sure sign of recent lice. She shuddered and stood on her own two feet. She tried to shake off the dizziness. Her knee and her shoulder ached, but she was fairly certain nothing was broken.

  “Captain says she’s taking us in. Battle’s on boys! To your stations!” The man had let go of Marguerite and was now trying to shove the goggles onto his own massive head, but he only succeeded in getting them pinched onto his brow. “What do I do with her?”

  “Tie her to the mainsail and get to work! We’ll use the parts from her ship in the catapult. Them Frenchies are going to regret the day they took us on!” A great cry went up from the men all around her. The big man pulled Marguerite, stumbling, toward a post that traveled up into the envelope of their ship. She couldn’t help but think what an interesting design it was but her thoughts were jerked back to the present as he yanked her arms behind her and around the pole then started fastening them with a rope.

  This was a disaster, an absolute and complete disaster. All the warnings Jacques gave her about what buccaneers did to women began to flood her mind. Even obscure tales she read as a child of tongues being torn out and bodices ripped open raced through her thoughts and bludgeoned her heart. She had to stay calm. She had to think. Panicking would only get her killed. “Ah!” she cried out in pain as the pirate yanked too hard on her arm, in turn hurting her throbbing shoulder.

  “Come on, Jo!” another man cried. “I need you on the ship cudgel!”

  “Right, I’m coming!” He hurried with her knot and then grinned in her face. “Don’t worry pretty little French lovey, I’ll be back for you in a jiff.”

  Marguerite shuddered and watched as her beloved goggles trotted away on top of the oaf’s head. The ship began flying some sort of maneuver. It spun around and flanked its sister ship. The deck crew made quick work of her wreck, tossing any bulky, unusable pieces overboard and organizing the rest near rustic catapults. Other men brought up buckets of goopy liquid and set them next to the catapult operators.

  Marguerite looked out beyond the scene in front of her and saw the Renegade was closing in quickly, with its razor sharp battering bow. The rest of the King’s ships stayed behind as the Renegade flew directly at what appeared to be the main pirate ship, right in the middle. But the pirates made quick work of the situation, maneuvering up and around the Renegade, like a matador dodging a massive, flying bull.

  The air was filled with auto pigeons carrying notes back and forth between the warships. Each ship had wireless telegraph, but there was no telling if the pirates could intercept the transmissions. The birds were much more secure and reliable in a close battle like this.

  Marguerite would have been fascinated by everything happening around her, except that she kept trying to wiggle her hands free, and was completely unsuccessful. Watching the ships square off to fight while she kept at her ropes, she realized that the Renegade was going to miss its target and was now trying to regain footing as the pirates prepared to fire on her when she passed.

  Air cannons roared through the driving winds and men stood at the ready, dipping debris in the buckets of liquid and securing it to catapults. As the Renegade drew near, she could see the crew of its deck making similar preparations. Then a man aboard the ship Marguerite was tied to brought out a torch and walked along the line, lighting each catapult’s load on fire as they aimed toward the Renegade

  “Oh, grease and gears,” Marguerite swore. Fire was just about the worst thing you could have hit an aership. She willed the crew of the Renegade to see the smoke and glowing flames and steer clear.

  Her thoughts were answered by Jacques’ vessel making a quick bank to the right, away from the ship she was on, and a blast of cannon fire from the aft of the Renegade. The pirates returned fire, but it was too late. Their flaming scraps of rubbish drifted harmlessly to the ocean below as cannon blasts rocked the boat out of position. Marguerite jerked and shook with the vessel she was tied to, but in her heart she cheered for her shipmates.

  Her shipmates. Outil and Jacques. What had she done? Where were they? How would they get out of this mess she’d caused? It worked once, so she tried again, willing the Renegade to turn and leave with the rest of the armada. She could figure out these pirates on her own. Maybe she could even steal a ship and fly back, catch up? “Oh crusty custard,” she swore again. No matter how stupid she was, or how terrible the peril she’d caused, she knew Jacques and Outil would never leave her. They had seen her stupid dingy land on the pirate deck and even if they didn’t know she was flying it, Jacques wouldn’t leave a man behind. Even if they did leave her behind, she knew deep in her heart that she probably wouldn’t have the will to fight on anyway.

  She wallowed in self-pity until she saw another of the French warships break off from the pack, safely gliding away from the fight to circle the battle at an unbelievable speed. It was smaller than the Renegade, sleek and shining silver in the morning light, but it didn’t have the obvious weaponry of the Renegade either. Still, it was wicked fast and tore around the pirates, blocking their maneuvers.

  Now that the small ship had cut them off, Jacques fired up his surplus motors and surprised the farthest ship out with his own burst of speed. The razor sharp tip of reinforced brass raced right for the hull of the smaller ship. Deck hands scurried to retreat, but it was too late. The huge spike ran right through the center of the body of the wooden ship.

  The noise of metal and wood crashing together carried over the high winds to all in earshot. The smaller ship stayed lodged on the spear of the Renegade like a sausage recently forked for dinner. Men cursed and scurried to reload their now empty weapons. Marguerite stared in wonder. She’d assumed the sharp points were meant for puncturing envelopes, but she supposed this worked as well.

  The smaller, faster French ship spun to attention and flew to the Renegade’s aid as the remaining pirate ships did the same—only not to help. The pirates raised red flags on all three ships. Marguerite had read enough to know this was a bad sign. It meant they were out for blood; no survivors would be taken. Her ship turned and sailed toward the Renegade as well. Marguerite guessed that these pirates thought they would fly up alongside the huge warship and blast it, maybe even board it, and have the day. But even with her short time on the ship, she knew there was enough fire power on the Renegade to take out several little scrap metal fliers like the one she was on, fire or no fire.

  The small F
rench ship flew to the envelope of the skewered pirate ship and tied on, a prime position to tap the gasses and leave it hanging helplessly until its weight pulled it to the ocean and beyond. As the pirates with their red flags drew nearer, the Renegade threw up its white flag, calling for negotiations. The men around her cheered, “They surrender!”

  The man who appeared to be in charge struck out at the closest of his deck mates and clocked him good in the face. “You idiot, that’s not a flag of surrender; that means they want to talk. They’ve got us by the gears right now. One poke from that little ship up there and the entire crew of the Lolly will be shark food.”

  “Well, what we going to do now?” asked another man.

  “We wait till Captain Douleur makes a move. If the red flag stays, we attack, if she flies the white, then we gots to sit back and wait till they be done talking.”

  Marguerite watched as the main ship drew nearer. The ship she was on was now close enough for the men on either vessel to give each other dirty looks. Side by side, the Renegade was obviously the far superior ship. She searched for Outil’s face, or even Jacques’s, but couldn’t see them among the deckhands. They were probably on the bridge.

  Someone on the Renegade spotted her and cried out. “They’ve got one of our own tied to the main sail!” She realized she was still wearing her French flight suit. It was the first time she felt grateful for it since the scratchy thing had been issued.

  “Call the captain!” Another man on the Renegade called out. “He’ll want to know!”

  Oh, I bet he’ll want to know. Marguerite thought.

  “Truce!” a pirate called out in English.

  She looked to the largest of the pirate ships, and sure enough, the red flag was gone and a white flag was taking its place. All she had to do now was wait. She tried to sink down to her bottom. Standing against the pole was becoming very tiresome, and her leg still ached from the crash. Men ran around her in all directions, preparing for whatever came next. Some had weapons drawn, some ale. Some were laughing while others looked fierce, ready for blood. As she slid down the pole, she wiggled her hands and twisted them around again, hoping the new angle would provide better leverage for slipping free.

  She was right. The bony part of her left hand popped against the tight rope. Pain shot up her arm and brought tears to her eyes, but her hand slipped out of the tight ropes providing space to release the other hand as well.

  Ha! Take that you goggle thief! She thought.

  She kept her hands behind the pole and shimmied back to standing while she began to calculate her options. Three men in front of her, a good ten feet between the two ships, ropes, bits of debris—she could do this.

  She took a deep breath, tried not to think about the pain in her head, shoulder, and leg, and now hand, and charged forward with every ounce of strength she had left.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The first clue that Marguerite’s plan wasn’t going to work was when she grabbed the rope in front of her at full speed, and her shoulder and hand exploded with pain. As small as she was, the weight of her body was too much for her injured arm. The crew of the Renegade saw her attempt and cheered while the men around her flew into action.

  She slid lamely off the rope and held her shoulder with her good arm trying to find another way to get back to her ship. A pirate ran for her with both arms open, but she easily ducked under him and grabbed a board with a nail in the end left from her wreck. Swinging wildly with her good arm at anyone else attempting to come near, she made it to the port side. Trouble now was that she knew she wasn’t strong enough to jump the distance between the ships, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the pirates in front of her long enough to even climb up and ready herself.

  Someone on the Renegade tried to throw her a rope. She snatched at it with her injured arm while shaking her board with the other, but missed, allowing the pirates to jump back in the fight. She swung her board as hard as she could and connected with the beefy man wearing her goggles, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He grabbed her weapon and threw it over the side of the ship as if it were as easy as plucking a sweet from a baby. A smaller man grabbed her from the other side and spun her around so that her back was pressed up against his belly as he pressed a knife to her throat. The crew of the Renegade cursed and shook their arms as she was dragged back, away from their reach.

  Marguerite’s heart pounded in her chest, her whole body hurt now, and the edge of the blade was scraping at her skin, cutting a little here, a little there. She couldn’t help the fat tears that began to roll down her face as she watched the Renegade’s helpless crew watching her.

  What had she done? How could she have been so foolish? She thought of her earlier anger and childish thoughts of revenge. She wished she could take them all back. Of course, Jacques hadn’t behaved himself either, but her blunders far outweighed his heavy-handedness.

  Just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, a familiar face in a captain’s hat pushed through the crowd to the edge of his ship. He walked purposefully, probably on his way to meet with the pirate captain. She watched him go, wishing she could call out to him, but knowing he wouldn’t hear. And then someone from the crowd grabbed his arm and pointed him in her direction. He stopped and looked directly into her face.

  Jacques’s expression was a mixture of sorrow, anger, and fear. It hurt her heart more than anything to see him looking at her that way. She tried to convey with her pleading expression and tears how sorry she was to have caused so much trouble. She was so close to being with him, and she realized she did want to be with him. Not just on the Renegade, but actually with Jacques. And now she couldn’t reach him, and he would have to risk his life to reach her. All she could do was continue to walk backwards and cry.

  Jacques turned and spoke to the man next to him. The man ran into the throng, and Jacques continued to stare at her for a few more moments, his eyes large and fixed, his jaw clenched as the pirates tied her arms and legs and forced her into a sitting position in one of the catapults facing the Renegade. She knew him well enough to know that he was very angry, and not just at her. He was about to do something rash to the pirates holding her.

  The dish she sat in was deep, and her legs stuck out at an odd angle. There was no way to wiggle out without free arms. A small, nasty looking man with rotten teeth grabbed a bucket of the sticky looking liquid they had covered the debris in, and climbed onto a crate just behind her. The men in front of her began to yell and shake their fists as Marguerite felt the first drops of cold liquid hit her head and run down her face leaving a film of sludge behind.

  Jacques balled his fist and slammed it on the railing. Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and called across the void in English, “You damage one hair on my aerman’s head, and I will skewer all of you personally.”

  His aerman. Was he trying to hide exactly what she meant to him, or was he letting her know her place? At least he didn’t tell them to go ahead and burn her, that she’d caused him more trouble than she was worth.

  “Keep your knickers on!” The little man yelled back, “We’ll wait on Captain Douleur’s answer. And then we’ll burn her!” He laughed maniacally and waved the torch over his head, coming dangerously close to Marguerite’s now flammable body. The man Jacques had spoken to earlier was back at his side, and Jacques nodded as he spoke. Then he turned to Marguerite again and mouthed the words je t’aime, before he moved back through the group on his deck and disappeared.

  I love you.

  He’d said it. He still loved her. She felt a flash of hope, before it instantly turned to second-guessing herself. He could have said a number of things that looked like je’taime. Things that would make more sense, like I hate you, you ruin everything, why did I ever think we could marry and live a happy life together, or you are a disaster. All of which made more sense than him loving her right now. He was gone, she could only assume to meet with Captain Douleur, and she would just have to wait
to learn the outcome of that meeting.

  The wind blew relentlessly as the minutes turned into an hour. Marguerite’s thoughts drifted from worry to complete despair. She rallied a few times with thoughts of escape, but there was no freeing her arms this time. Her injuries and the extra tight binding kept her stuck in her misery. The sludge she was covered in smelled strongly of chemicals and eventually began to sting and burn her skin. Her arms were at such an angle that the pain in her shoulder was constant, almost unbearable. Marguerite was close to wishing they would just finish her off and be done with the whole ordeal. She sat with her eyes closed, wishing for her father, and her soft bed back in Montreal, not daring to wish for Jacques, when a familiar mechanical voice cried out from the Renegade.

  Most of the crew had gone back to their work, a few stayed to watch Marguerite and her ruthless captors, and in the middle of them all, Outil appeared, shining as bright as the day she was built.

  “Be strong, aerman!” the bot called out in French.

  Marguerite was surprised by the informal address, at first, and then she realized that the pirates had no idea who she was, and if they did, it could turn the tables on negotiations in their favor. She tried to smile at her wise robot friend, but the chemical gasses burned her eyes, and she had to close them again. She heard shuffling and rumbling all around her, along with complaints, cusses, and thumps. Occasionally someone would poke or prod her or whisper something lewd in her ear. She ignored them all and kept her eyes shut tight against the fumes.

  Suddenly she felt pressure at her ankles, and her eyes flew open. A man bent over her, cutting her ropes. Another was at her wrists cutting there. She clenched her eyes against the pain.

  “You are one lucky lady, aerman. Quite the bargain struck for you. Must be a favorite of the captain. Eh?”

  He poked her belly, and she swatted at him with her now free hand. She dared to ask in her broken English, “You are letting me go?”