Finally, why in the world is this case so alarmingly full of pirates? A small and clumsy scallywag called the Terror of Something-or-Other has taken an interest in our investigation, and she severely disrupted my afternoon tea. Perhaps I shall order a few of my men to track her movements.
Signed
John Hastings
Captain, Queen’s Inspectors
* * *
* * *
From
The Picaroon
BEIN’ THE OFFICIAL NEWSLETTER OF THE VERY NEARLY HONORABLE LEAGUE OF PIRATES
TERROR OF THE SOUTHLANDS BAFFLES SCALLYWAGS. In a curious turn of events, Pirate Hilary Westfield and her mates were spotted leaving a finishing school in Pemberton this afternoon, accompanied by a High Society schoolgirl. As Pirate Westfield is supposed to be restoring her good name in the League, we cannot understand why she would be engaged in such strange activities. Our sources suggest that Pirate Westfield is attempting to find the missing Enchantress of the Northlands. This strikes us as a noble quest, to be sure, but perhaps Pirate Westfield has forgotten that pirates are not supposed to be noble. Will the Terror mend her ways, or will she become an embarrassment to the League? The Picaroon is eager to find out.
PIRATE INVOLVED IN ENCHANTRESS MYSTERY? According to gossip in Pemberton Bay, a pirate was seen leaving the Enchantress’s private quarters around the time of her disappearance. Could one of the League’s own be responsible for this shocking turn of events? We asked VNHLP president Captain Rupert Blacktooth to comment on the matter. “If a villainous scheme has been carried out against the Enchantress, I sincerely hope that no League members were involved,” Captain Blacktooth said this morning in Pemberton Bay. “I know that not all pirates are fond of the Enchantress, and her rules make plundering treasure rather difficult, but the VNHLP believes that disagreements are best resolved through duels, battles, or discussions over grog. Causing someone to disappear is not endorsed by the League’s official handbook.” Any pirates with information about the Enchantress’s whereabouts are advised to contact Captain Blacktooth immediately.
COMPETITION RESULTS. Our Midsummer’s Eve picnic last night was a swashbuckling success! We are pleased to report that Burly Bruce McCorkle won the hardtack-eatin’ contest, eating thirty-three squares of hardtack in ten minutes. The crew of the dread ship Matilda won the swimmin’ relay, and the VNHLP’s membership coordinator, One-Legged Jones, emerged victorious in the one-legged race.
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ROAD TO Pemberton Bay stretched wide enough for Hilary, Charlie, and Claire to walk side by side. Hilary’s cutlass bounced against her leg in time to the notes from Claire’s tin whistle, and the gargoyle sang along with gusto in his bag. As they walked, Pemberton’s grand shops and stately homes gave way to hillocks and pine groves, and the pirates soon found themselves on a lonely little bend of road where the trees stood in clusters like gossiping schoolgirls.
It seemed to Hilary that a good pirate captain should take care of her mates, so she pulled a corked glass bottle of water from her bag and passed it around as they walked. “Much appreciated,” said the gargoyle, who had managed to take a few sips of water before it began to dribble down his snout. “My voice was starting to go all gravelly.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything to eat,” said Hilary. It had been far too many hours since breakfast, and although Miss Greyson had given them a few squares of hardtack wrapped in a handkerchief, Hilary had split the last piece with the gargoyle the day before. “I suppose I could magic something up,” she said, “though it would have to be small.” After the incident with the porridge bowl, she had no intention of asking her magic coin for anything larger than a lump of cheese—and perhaps some bread to go with it.
“Oh!” said Claire. “Would you mind terribly if I tried? I’ve finally got a magic piece of my own!” She set down her traveling case and pulled out a gleaming golden crochet hook, which she held in the air like a trophy. “Truthfully,” she said, “I haven’t been allowed to use it yet. Our magic lessons at school just began last week, you see, and it’s been nothing but dry old theory so far. But how difficult can it possibly be to conjure up a luncheon?”
Before Hilary could get a word in edgewise, Claire pointed her crochet hook toward the sky. “Magic,” she said, “please bring me a tray of egg sandwiches”—she looked down at the gargoyle—“and a small bowl of spiders.”
As Hilary watched, the crochet hook quivered in Claire’s hand. It twitched to the right and to the left. “Is it working?” the gargoyle asked. “I don’t see any spiders.”
He’d hardly finished speaking when a ball of light—or was it something even brighter and fiercer than light?—flared up around Claire’s crochet hook so furiously that Hilary could hardly look at it. Then a tremendous bang shook the trees to their very roots, and the hook exploded.
Hilary dove to the ground and covered the gargoyle’s head with her hands as bits of crochet hook clattered down on the cobblestones. Claire yelped, Charlie cursed very loudly indeed, and the air around them took on a damp, singed smell, like bonfire smoke after rain. When Hilary felt sure she was no longer being peppered by stray bits of magic, she looked up at Claire, who was still standing upright, staring at her hand and wobbling slowly from side to side.
“Are you all right?” Hilary scrambled to her feet. “Charlie, help me steady her.” Hilary held one of Claire’s elbows, and Charlie held the other, and together they guided her to the side of the road, where she sat down on a pine-tree stump and blinked several times in a row.
“I’m fine,” she said at last. “I believe I’ve burned my hand—but not too badly.” The fingers that she’d used to hold the crochet hook were red; Hilary dug a handkerchief from her bag and wrapped it around Claire’s hand. “That’s not what’s supposed to happen,” Claire said shakily. “Is it?”
“No,” said Hilary, “it’s certainly not. I’ve never heard of a magic piece exploding before.” She looked over at Charlie. “Has this happened to anyone who’s gotten magic from Jasper?”
“I don’t think so.” Charlie must have been badly shaken, for he looked as serious as Hilary had ever seen him. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”
The gargoyle shuddered. “I don’t like it one bit.”
“Well, I suppose that’s just perfect,” said Claire. “I’m the only girl in Augusta who can’t use magic properly, my crochet hook is blown to bits, and I don’t believe I’ll ever have a hope of entering High Society.” She buried her head in her hands. “And to top it off, we still don’t have our sandwiches.”
That, at least, was something Hilary could fix. She pulled out her magic coin and asked as politely as she could for a tray of sandwiches, which appeared promptly and without any fuss. With their crustless edges and dainty fillings, the sandwiches were hardly suitable for a group of bold and daring pirates, but Hilary was too hungry to care, and by the time she’d eaten three, her mood had improved considerably. “If you’re feeling all right, Claire,” she said, “we’d better hurry along. I’d prefer not to run into any queen’s inspectors on Cannonball Jack’s doorstep.”
CONJURING UP THE plate of sandwiches had taken more of Hilary’s strength than she’d realized, and to make matters worse, she could feel her feet beginning to blister in her boots as she marched along. Hilary reminded herself quite sternly that a true pirate wasn’t bothered by such small inconveniences; she sincerely doubted that Captain Blacktooth had ever allowed a mere blister to slow him down. Still, she was nearly ready to abandon her boots altogether by the time they reached a wooden signpost that read, in carefully painted blue letters:
* * *
PEMBERTON BAY
1 MILE
DANGER!
HIGH TIDES AND SCALLYWAGS AHEAD
NO MISS PIMM’S GIRLS BEYOND THIS POINT
* * *
Claire studied the sign and frowned. Then she turned her cardigan inside out and scrunched her hair int
o knots. “That’s better,” she said. “No one shall know I’m a Miss Pimm’s girl now.”
Just past the signpost, the road rushed downhill toward the stretched and rumpled sea. Dozens of boats in every size and color bobbed on the waves, and even more were tied up along the docks, where they rocked back and forth like a small floating village. The gargoyle peered out from his bag and sniffed the air. “That,” he said happily, “is the smell of adventure!” He thought for a moment. “And fish.”
With the spare spyglass she’d swiped from Jasper’s quarters, Hilary scanned the bay for a glimpse of Cannonball Jack’s houseboat. She had visited the Blunderbuss several months earlier, when Miss Greyson had insisted on delivering holiday cakes to all their friends and relations, but she would have recognized the gleaming black ship at the far end of the docks even if she’d never seen it before in her life: its skull-and-crossbones flags were wreathed in smoke, and a cascade of cannonballs flew from its deck, nearly scraping the underbellies of passing seagulls before splashing into the sea. Charlie raised his eyebrows, and Claire clasped her hands to her chest.
“Oh, good,” said Hilary. “Cannonball Jack must be at home.”
Half a dozen more cannonballs burst forth from the Blunderbuss as the pirates hurried down the hill. The gargoyle said he hoped that no one would mistake him for a cannonball, for he didn’t think he’d enjoy plummeting into the sea. “Cannonball Jack wouldn’t do any such thing,” Hilary reassured him. “I feel almost sure he’s not a villain, and even if he is—Oh, drat.”
There, directly in front of her, was a red-jacketed queen’s inspector. He was crouched on his knees in the middle of the road—a ridiculous place to crouch, in Hilary’s opinion—and he seemed to be studying the cobblestones through his magnifying glass.
“There are loads more of them,” said Claire. “Look.” She pointed down to the shoreline, where five more gentlemen in red jackets were crawling about.
Hilary glanced over at the Blunderbuss, but the inspectors clearly hadn’t discovered it yet. Then she marched up to the closest inspector, whose nose was nearly touching the cobblestones by now. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked.
The inspector jumped and dropped his magnifying glass to the ground, where it shattered. “Stay back, scallywag!” he said. “You’ve broken my glass, but you won’t break my bones!”
“Of course I won’t,” said Hilary. “What would be the point of that?”
“You are a pirate, aren’t you?” The inspector frowned and studied Hilary through a shard of magnifying glass. “Are you by any chance Cannonball Jack?”
The gargoyle buried himself in Hilary’s bag, but even the canvas couldn’t muffle his snorts of laughter.
“No,” said Hilary, “I’m afraid I’m not Cannonball Jack, and neither are my mates.”
“Are you sure?” the inspector asked. “We’re supposed to find a fearsome pirate by that name and bring him back to Pemberton for questioning, but I haven’t seen any sign of him at all.”
“How silly!” said Claire. “Staring at the road isn’t likely to do you a bit of good. Why aren’t you looking in pirate ships?”
The inspector closed his eyes as though Claire were an irritation to be borne with as much patience as possible. “Little girl,” he said, “it’s clear that you don’t possess the powers of deduction. I assure you that our methods are both modern and effective.”
Hilary rolled her eyes. If all the queen’s inspectors were this foolish, they wouldn’t be able to find the Enchantress unless she placed herself directly under their magnifying glasses. All they seemed to be good for, in fact, was getting in Hilary’s way. “I’d be happy to direct you to Cannonball Jack’s ship, sir,” she said, “but I’m afraid it’s not in this bay. It’s a good walk from here, just south of the fish market.” She pointed back up the hill, well away from the Blunderbuss. “You’d better let the other inspectors know. Perhaps one of them will let you borrow his glass.”
Without so much as a nod of thanks, the inspector leaped up and went to gather his companions. A few moments later, all six inspectors hurried by them, waving their dusting brushes and looking very confident indeed.
“Well done, Terror,” said Charlie. “That should keep them occupied for a few hours at least.”
Hilary gave her mates a little bow. “It’s a shame,” she said, “that no one seems to have warned the inspectors that pirates lie.”
ONCE THE INSPECTORS had disappeared over the hill, the pirates made their way down the docks to the Blunderbuss. Smoke still billowed from the deck, making it rather difficult to see the ship’s cheerful checked curtains and the window boxes planted with wildflowers. A large copper bell hung next to the door, and under it was a neatly printed sign that said PLEASE RING AN’ ANNOUNCE YERSELF.
“Well,” said Charlie, “that’s surprisingly civilized.”
“We’d better do as he asks,” said Claire. “He seems to have a great many cannons.”
Hilary rang the bell. Then she cleared her throat and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ahoy!” she called over the din of the cannons. “The Terror of the Southlands has come for a visit!”
The gargoyle poked her with his tail. “Ahem,” he said.
“Sorry,” said Hilary. “I mean, the Terror of the Southlands and her gargoyle.”
“And her mates,” Charlie pointed out.
“Oh, very well,” said Hilary. “And her mates!” She dearly hoped Cannonball Jack would answer his doorbell before someone else came along and demanded to be announced.
The cannon blasts stopped, and there was a good deal of stomping. Then the houseboat door flew open. Hilary felt her boots leave the deck as Cannonball Jack wrapped her in a hearty and gunpowder-scented embrace.
“Well, blast me buckles,” he bellowed, setting Hilary back down with a solid thump. “If it isn’t the Terror.” He stepped back and tugged his eye patch up to his forehead. “Ye be a finer sight to see than a parrot on a bowsprit. And I see ye brought yer mates along. Any friend o’ the Terror is a friend o’ mine.” He bowed to Claire, tipped his hat to the gargoyle, and extended his hook to Charlie, who shook it gingerly.
Cannonball Jack looked every inch a pirate, from the broad plume of his hat feather to the toes of his boots, but there were shadows under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept soundly, and his fine ruffled shirt was wrinkled and worn. He brushed himself off with his hook and rolled up his sleeves. “I’ve been doin’ a bit of blastin’,” he said by way of explanation. “Would ye care to come with me? ’Twould be helpful to have more scallywags to man the cannons.”
Cannonball Jack led them around to the gun deck, where he began to stuff the nearest cannon with bits of paper and quite a lot of gunpowder. As he worked, Hilary did her best to look through the Blunderbuss’s portholes. She couldn’t see any sign of Miss Pimm, but the air was so thick with smoke that it was hard to be certain.
“Are you sure this is entirely safe?” Claire whispered as Cannonball Jack struck a match on the sole of his boot and lit the cannon’s fuse. “What if he truly did kidnap Miss Pimm? What if he’s already blasted her to bits?”
Cannonball Jack spun around. “Did ye say Miss Pimm?”
At that moment, the cannon went off with a bang. A great cloud of gunpowder filled the air, and the cannonball sailed into the harbor, where it splashed down near a young couple in a flimsy green rowboat. The drenched young woman shook her parasol in the Blunderbuss’s direction, but Cannonball Jack didn’t seem to notice; instead he stared at Claire.
“I asked ye a question, me hearty,” he said, and his eyes narrowed. “Did ye utter the name of Miss Eugenia Pimm?”
Claire looked far too terrified to speak another word, so Hilary stepped forward. “Miss Pimm’s gone missing,” she said, “and we’re trying to find her. If she’s here, you’d better let us know at once.”
Cannonball Jack turned his stare toward Hilary. “So that’s why ye’ve come,” he said. “I wondered.” He
put his good hand on Hilary’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Terror. Eugenia’s not here. I wish she were—but perhaps ye’d better come inside.”
INSIDE THE BLUNDERBUSS’S buttercup-yellow cabin, Cannonball Jack settled himself in a comfortable armchair and put his peg leg up on the footrest. Hilary, Charlie, and Claire balanced on overturned grog barrels, and the gargoyle nestled on a pillow that Cannonball Jack had set down for him. Every so often, feathers floated out of it from the places where Cannonball Jack had pierced it with his hook.
Cannonball Jack himself seemed distressed indeed, and Hilary was not sure how to comfort a pirate without insulting his fearsomeness. “Would you like another piece of shortbread?” she asked, passing the platter of cookies that Cannonball Jack had set out for them.
“Aye,” he said miserably. He munched on the shortbread. “Eugenia’s very fond of sweets, ye know. We get together once a month fer dinner, an’ she always has at least two bowls o’ chocolate mousse. ’Tis me own recipe,” he added, “with a pinch o’ sea salt an’ just a hint o’ gunpowder.”
Hilary could hardly imagine the prim and proper Enchantress sitting down to dine with a pirate, let alone accepting extra helpings of the pirate’s dessert. “I had no idea you and Miss Pimm were such close acquaintances,” she said.
“Aye, we’ve been good friends since we met at Jasper’s weddin’. I like the chance to cook more than the usual hardtack an’ jam, an’ Eugenia wanted to know more about pirates. She was concerned, ye see. She knew well enough that plenty o’ scallywags didn’t care fer her, an’ she asked me to tell her what they were sayin’ about her on the High Seas.” Cannonball Jack looked fairly abashed at this. “I know it’s not piratical to share what yer mates tell ye in confidence, but none o’ them is as loyal a friend as Eugenia—and none o’ them has ever complimented me chocolate mousse.”
The Terror of the Southlands Page 6