The men pulled on the ropes to hold the sails of the Yorkman taut, preventing them from luffing noisily in the breeze. All commands were issued through hand signals rather than the customary shouts and even Captain Ishiro’s nominal officers took off their shoes, so as not to make any noise walking upon the deck.
To be truthful, Ishiro was astounded they’d managed to get this close without the Panacea’s lookouts spotting them. Peering through his spyglass, he was puzzled as to why he could see no hands holding down the posts at the forecastle, helm, and wheel. Then the wind shifted and the putrid air emanating from the Panacea wafted over the Yorkman’s bridge, nearly choking Ishiro with its stench where he stood. Even perpetually unwashed sailors grimaced, disgusted at the pungent aroma. Ishiro felt his spirits rise as he realized just exactly what the Panacea’s crew must have been eating. As they sailed silently closer to the Panacea, Ishiro was pleased to note that the only sailors moving about on the deck of the enemy ship were those formerly of the Pieces of Eight. Maybe their luck was finally changing.
Hold fast, mates. Ishiro smiled at the sight of his former shipmates, all upright, and in perfect health for helping the invasion. Won’t be long now.
“On my signal,” he whispered to Matan, the cannon master, as he held up his hand.
The hands at the cannons made a few last-minute adjustments as the Yorkman glided still closer to the reeking Panacea.
Just a little bit more.
They were so close now that any word uttered on the Yorkman could be distinctly heard on the Panacea. Still, no one on board the enemy vessel seemed to take notice of their approach. Ishiro brought down his hand, the sign for the cannon master to order the gunners to fire. The fuses of the cannons were lit just as the first cry of alarm came down from the mizzenmast of the Panacea. The Yorkman was spotted at last, but too late to do the crew of the Panacea any good. The cannonballs quickened in their well-greased wombs. Fuses burned quickly down to the metal and the air exploded in a volley of cannon fire.
Lieutenant Jesper was just emerging from below decks as the first volley of enemy fire arched over his bridge.
On the Yorkman, Ishiro was close enough to hear the sounds of splintering wood and angry commands that came too late. He prayed his friends remained unharmed as he gave the signal for another volley. The recoil from so much simultaneous firing sent the iron cannon barrels bucking back like startled horses under the gunners’ hands. Frantically they sponged the cannons down and prepared to fire again.
At last the gun deck of the Panacea roared to life, but the use of cheap, inferior powder and the lack of healthy men to service the cannons provided insurmountable problems. As a result, the Panacea’s response was a lacklustre, uncoordinated volley. Most of the Panacea’s cannonballs sank harmlessly into the water between the two ships. The few shots that did manage to hit the Yorkman met a new type of hull constructed of sturdy live oak. The shots bounced right off her with barely a scratch.
As the smoke cleared, Ishiro spied a gaping hole in the Panacea’s belly. A cheer rose up from the deck of the Yorkman as the rest of the crew spotted it.
A hit!” shouted Ishiro gleefully, with a sudden rush of relief. “A most palpable hit!”
“Hold fast, men!” Madsea screamed.
Bonnie Mary dug her fingers into the gaps between the lashed-together pieces of driftwood as the sinister fin sliced through the water. She expected the shark to take the craft in its massive jaws and tear it to shreds. Instead, the grey fin disappeared beneath the raft again. Heart knocking at her ribs, Bonnie Mary surveyed the water for any sign of the creature’s presence, but the wind had died down and the surface was now eerily still. For a few tense seconds she waited, listening to the ragged breathing of Madsea over the loud rush of blood in her ears, every fibre of her body as taut as a tightened wire.
Suddenly, there was a loud crack. The shark was ramming them from below. As her companions screamed, she felt the timbers of the raft shiver as the creature continued its assault. She glanced from the disintegrating raft beneath her to the distant shore and back again. Where to go? She couldn’t swim, but she couldn’t just sit there as the raft was smashed to bits.
Instantly, one sickening blow from the creature stripped her of all choice. With another ear-splitting crack the raft splintered into a thousand pieces. Bonnie Mary felt herself catapulted through the air at an alarming speed, the captain, doctor, bosun, and steward close at her heels.
Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, she landed with a splash back in the water, pieces of the ruined raft raining down around her.
Panicked, she flailed around, attempting to recall the details of an aborted swimming lesson Jim had given her years before. Then, just as she was slipping below the surface, one of her desperately windmilling arms connected with something hard bobbing on the surface. Immediately, she felt herself rising back up. As she surfaced, she heard splashing and the sound of male voices cursing and sputtering, but they sounded far away.
Her hair was tangled around her face. She managed to shake it away enough to breath easier without releasing the object keeping her afloat, but her eyes stung from the salty water and she could not see very well.
She turned in what she hoped was the direction of shore and desperately started kicking her feet.
“Ahoy there, mate!” cried out a friendly voice.
“Jim?” she cried in disbelief. She released one hand from her floatation device to flip her tangle of braids away at last. By some miracle, there he was swimming toward her.
“You all right?” he called out as he drew closer.
Bonnie Mary nodded, rubbing the salt water from her stinging eyes. “You?”
“Ain’t shot yet,” he said with a wan smile.
Then she remembered the creature, still at large in the water. “There’s a shark!” she warned him. “Be careful!”
“It’s well away from us now,” he said as he drew up to her, strong arms treading the surface. “It seems to like its entertainment elsewhere, anyway.” Before Bonnie Mary had a chance to ask him what he meant by that, she heard him chuckle.
“Well bless me soul,” he exclaimed as he touched the floating piece of wood in her hands. “Look what you found!”
She looked down and laughed, realizing that the floating piece of wood she’d managed to grab hold of was one of his crutches, last seen in use as a raft oar.
“Thought I’d hang onto it for you,” she told him, smiling.
Long John kissed her on her salty mouth and together, holding the makeshift flotation device in front of them, they kicked their legs, making for the distant shore of black sand.
“What of the others?” Bonnie Mary asked as they went, thinking how she’d hate to see Doc Lewiston drown. He’d been nothing but kind to them despite his position.
“Lucky sods’re all hanging on to the remains of the raft.” Long John slipped her a crafty smile. “All except one.” He nodded his head toward the area of the moat they’d just left and Bonnie Mary turned to witness something truly startling.
As she watched, she saw the shark leap out of the water, flipping in an easy backward arc, as if it did that sort of thing every day. In that instant she recognized the “shark” for what it truly was: a dolphin!
Now some folks, at a moment like that, would say to themselves: Phtt! A dolphin? We got all worked up over a dolphin? But not Bonnie Mary. Ever since she’d seen a dolphin pod tear a massive great white shark into a pulpy mass of chum after it dared threaten one of their young, she’d always treated the species with respect. After all, seven feet of highly intelligent, hydrodynamic muscle in a bad mood is not something to dismiss lightly.
As if seeking to prove her sentiments, the cetacean stood upon its tail flukes balancing a white-faced Fetzcaro Madsea on its snout. As the two pirates watched, the creature flipped the Panacea’s captain up in the air, caught him, and bounced him off its snout again like a rubber ball, all the while making strange cli
cking noises. Had Bonnie Mary not known better, she could have sworn the creature was laughing.
As the dolphin threw Madsea up again, light as a rag doll, Long John grinned. This time the creature tossed Madsea way up, too far and too high to catch. The captain landed with a sickening splash right in front of Long John and Bonnie Mary.
In a fog of terror, Madsea thrashed in the water, reaching out for whatever he could grab hold of. What he could grab hold of, it turned out, was the waterlogged crutch. With a drowning man’s frenzied strength he wrenched the piece of wood away from a surprised Bonnie Mary. Unfortunately, the spindly crutch was long past being an adequate flotation device, soaked through as it was. Madsea began to sink.
Down, down, down he went.
But, luckily for him the last down was a rather short one. In fact, Madsea suddenly realized, as his backside hit the sandy bottom, that he was hardly down far at all. Abruptly, he gathered his feet under him and stood up. The water reached just above his chest.
Giggling breathlessly with relief, he took one step, then another. Soon the water was at his waist. Looking up ahead, he could see Jim and Mary scrambling up the bank, heading for the mountain as fast as their exhausted bodies could carry them, which, with Bonnie Mary supporting an injured Jim, was not very fast at all.
Madsea heard the angry clicking sounds of the dolphin behind him. Suddenly, he felt as if he had been punched in the calves. The dolphin nearly knocked Madsea off his feet with its powerful snout, but he managed to stay upright and slog his way through the shallows without the vengeful creature attacking him any further. He made it to the black beach at last and stumbled onto the rock-strewn sand. Spotting Long John and Bonnie Mary limping along up ahead, he slung the much-abused crutch over his shoulder like a club and grinned. They would be easy prey.
But just as this happy thought came to mind, Madsea heard a loud boom. Madsea instantly recognized the sound of distant cannon fire and had the sinking feeling that the Panacea was under attack.
Not being well-versed in the art of silent meditation, Jonesy quickly grew bored waiting for Little Jane and Villienne to return.
He had never been the type of man content to hang back while his friends and family placed themselves in peril. Yet without the ability to swim the moat, what use was he to them? Without a clear answer to this question, Jonesy headed off down the narrow strip of black sand to see what he could find.
After walking for about a quarter of an hour, he spied several shapes in the distance. Using his spyglass he noted about a half-dozen sailors lying in varying positions of abject wretchedness on the sand. These men, Jonesy assumed, were the remains of the Panacea’s landing party, though he figured there had to be more than these few sickly specimens. Maybe the ones who were healthy enough had continued on. Still, in time even these fellows, ill as they were, could make trouble for Little Jane and Villienne.
Well, thought Jonesy, least I could do is try to make some trouble for them in return.
He sank to a crouch and made his way up and away from the water, where it was rockier and the scrubby vegetation encroached upon the sand. Here he could approach the men without being spotted. With his fighting knife in one hand (the pistol he’d brought had been lost when they’d run aground) and a large rock in the other, he approached the unsuspecting sailors. The first man he came upon was lying face down on the sand, groaning as he clutched his stomach. Jonesy immediately fell upon him. He managed to subdue the weakened fellow with little resistance, but the sailor’s cries quickly roused the others from their lethargy.
“Murderer!” came a full-throated shout from one of the other men.
“No! No!” protested Jonesy, visions of a return to Newgate Prison clouding his mind. “I ain’t. I swears it. See.” He held up his victim by the collar. The man blinked stupidly in the sunlight. “See? I just stunned ’im. He’ll be all right in a tic. Ain’t that so, mate?” Jonesy asked him.
But the barkeep’s mercy toward their comrade did little to appease the other sailors. They screamed in rage and thundered toward him, swords drawn.
Jonesy swore briefly before dropping the man and turning to flee from the onslaught of enraged sailors. Just then, from beyond the ring of rocks, came the unmistakable sound of cannon fire. Instantly distracted from the chase, the sailors stopped in their tracks and looked at one another.
“What was that?”
“Look. Smoke. Someone’s attacking the ship!”
“Forget him. All hands back to the Panacea. On the double!”
And with that the sailors turned and ran up the beach, scrambling over the rocks, off to defend their beleaguered ship.
Jonesy stood up and blinked, suddenly alone on the beach. Even the sailor he’d stunned had somehow managed to stumble off in the general direction of the cannon fire. It had all happened in a matter of seconds. Jonesy looked down at the scattered supplies they had left behind them on the sand. The campsite was littered with shirts, shoes, tents, pots, and cooking utensils. There was something else, too. With a gleam in his eye, he reached down and picked up a pistol.
Chapter Twelve
All Hands on Deck
Ned Ronk looked around the smoking deck of the Panacea in dismay. A few panicked sailors were running to belatedly load their weapons and fire the rest of the cannons. Anyone could see it was too little, too late.
Lieutenant Jesper ran past Ned, yelling and waving his sword. “What’re you standing there for? All hands on deck! Attack!” Jesper screamed at the boatswain’s mate, still curled over the scuppers in the throes of orange bird malaise. “You! Man your battle station!”
The weaponsmaster’s boy scurried by, handing out arms. Ned gave the inscription on his gun a dubious glance. Who’d ever heard of a Backer rifle?
“Look!” someone shouted.
Ned turned just in time to witness Lancashire, Levittson, and Dvorjack attack the Panacea’s cannon gunners on the gun deck. In the melee, a pile of cannonballs was knocked from its pyramid formation. The heavy balls rolled down to the lower decks, knocking confused crewmembers off their feet as they went.
“Somebody shoot them,” screamed Lieutenant Jesper, stamping his foot. “Shoot the prisoners!”
Ned Ronk and seven other men well enough to shoot primed their weapons. Ned had difficulty loading his pistol, as if the chamber was the wrong size for the bullets …
With a mighty heave, Lancashire broke the harness of the biggest cannon on the ship and sent it hurtling through the railing and into the sea. This was not as hard to accomplish as one might think, for over the past week the crew of the Pieces had secretly been taking turns loosening the bolts and thinning the ropes that held the mighty cannons in place. Following the larger man’s example, Lockheed and Levittson got behind a pair of 24-pounders and began to push.
“Shoot!” came the order for the riflemen.
Eight bullets bounced into their chambers at once. Eight guns exploded. Eight men fell to the deck, dropping their defective pistols, holding their right hands in agony.
Ned Ronk howled in pain as he rolled on the deck, clutching his burnt hand. The scent of singed flesh and cordite wafted through the air. From somewhere he heard Lieutenant Jesper screaming at another group of sailors to “look lively!”
Freed prisoners helped the other captured crewmembers of the Pieces of Eight escape their bonds. Together they sent the rest the Panacea’s arsenal flying into the sea.
Ned looked up from his scorched hand just long enough to see Lieutenant Jesper fall to the deck in front of him with a thump. The smoke cleared to reveal the Pieces of Eight’s weaponsmaster, Jezebel Mendoza, crouched over him, in the process of relieving the senseless man of his sword. Beside Jezebel stood the former cabin boy, Rufus, holding a sturdy belaying pin at the ready should Jesper try to rise. Mendoza stood up, the lieutenant’s rapier now held in her appreciative grasp.
“A fine addition to my collection,” she pronounced. Then she bent into an elegant dancer’s plié
and extended the sword, flexing the weapon with deadly precision straight at Ned. She favoured him with a predatory smile.
“En garde,” she said.
Ned Ronk blinked at her, turned, and, shouldering terrified sailors aside as he ran, barrelled through the chaos of the upper decks.
Weaponsmaster Mendoza looked down at the men still rolling around on the deck clutching their injured hands and shook her head in disappointment. “See, Rufus, no good ever comes of using replicas. Always, always insist on the real thing.”
Rat in human shape as Ned was, he instinctively realized the moment to abandon ship had come. He wondered where that idiot Madsea was in all this — still looking for his legendary treasure, no doubt. That blasted treasure! Now that the Yorkman had bested the Panacea, Ned knew he’d never see so much as a brass farthing of it.
He decided stubbornly as he climbed over the rail that the treasure would be his. It was only fair. He was the one who had sacrificed his name and position for it. It was time he took fate into his own hands. This resolution set firmly in his mind, Ned pinched his nose and took a deep breath. Then, for the second time in less than two weeks, Ned Ronk jumped ship.
Chapter Thirteen
How to Walk on Water
(and Other Unexpected Skills)
Back on the Yorkman, Ishiro urged his men forward. “Quickly,” he cried, “before they get to their guns. Let ’er have it on the broadside before she comes about. Don’t wait till the smoke clears. Just aim where you was aiming before. One … two … three …” Ishiro brought his sword down as a signal.
“Fire as you bear!” cried the quartermaster.
The second series of fuses were lit. Wicks of kerosene-soaked rope burned for a moment and then …
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