Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl

by Leigh Statham

  The horizon soon began to change from bright blue to fiery orange, and then a soft pink fading to deep purple. A vast net of stars covered her and a deep black settled below. Pinpoints of light speckled the land in random places. Glowing clusters marked the more populated towns, like Virginny and Baltimore.

  She changed into a flight suit and dried her hair as best she could with a spare blanket, then threw herself on the bed. No one had bothered to deliver any food yet, which irked Marguerite a bit. The battle was over; surely everyone had eaten by now. But the feelings passed quickly as waves of guilt washed over her as she thought about her foolish wrong turns.

  “Outil, I swear to listen to you the next time you give me advice.” She pronounced with as much resolve as she could muster.

  The bot simply nodded her head. “Yes, m’lady.”

  “You don’t think I will. I can tell. You think I’ll just go on doing whatever fool thing comes into my head,” Marguerite sat up and faced the bot that was standing in the corner, waiting to power down for the night.

  “No, m’lady. I know you are penitent for your mistakes, and you wish to be a better person. I do not think I can guarantee that my advice will always be the correct path to choose.”

  “Well, so far you’ve been right as rain.” Marguerite flopped back on her bed. “And I am a fool.”

  “I disagree. And I have good news, m’lady. Upon my last check, the beetle frequency is much closer. I believe we have almost arrived at Cape Feare.”

  A knock at the door startled both of them. “Yes,” Marguerite called.

  A key was fitted into the lock, and the mechanism clicked, allowing it to swing wide. Louis stood there, looking sheepish and smelling horrible. He was carrying a tray of what looked to be a cold stew and bread.

  “Dinner, Lady Vadnay,” he said quietly as he entered her room and placed the tray on the small table.

  “Louis, what on earth happened to you today?” Marguerite sat up and smelled at the food, trying to rid her nostrils of his stink. “You smell like you lost a fight with Fifi.”

  “Yes, miss. You aren’t far from the truth. Captain put me on special duties this afternoon. I was packaging up Marguerite Bombs.”

  “Packaging what?” She set down the fork she’d just picked up and looked at the poor boy.

  “Well, Captain liked your little trick you played on Captain Laviolette so much, she ordered me to make up some more packages just like them—only with some gunpowder to boot. We’ve been saving Fifi’s wastes for the past week. It’s not a pretty job.” He sighed and looked, even more, embarrassed.

  “Ha! That’s excellent news. Why don’t you go get cleaned up and head to bed,” Marguerite offered.

  “Can’t. That’s the other news. We’re docking in Cape Feare in the next ten minutes. Captain will be down to see you before that. She said to eat up and get ready.”

  “Well, thank you, Louis.” Marguerite cringed at his filthy clothes and terrible smell, but patted him on the back, and returned his happy grin.

  “My pleasure, m’lady.”

  He left as quickly as he’d come, but she didn’t lock the door this time. The food was better than going without, and Marguerite took quick bites as she went through her pack and trunk, trying to decide what to take with her. She had her goggles ready and her gun in her waistband when Captain Butterfield showed up.

  “Oh, no,” she said when she saw Marguerite’s outfit. “You will put on your best gown and put away all that gear, and you will do exactly as I say for the rest of this night or I swear to you, I will leave you and, any other fool who helps you, in this godforsaken city of pirates and walking parts. Are we clear?” She stood with her hands on her pudgy hips, her face tight as a knot and her eyebrows raised, waiting for a reply.

  Marguerite felt it only fitting she say, “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Now, put on your prettiest ball gown. Outil, put this around her wrists. You are booty tonight, and that is that. Booty does not speak. You will follow me to the tavern where my messengers have informed me Douleur and her crew are celebrating their victory over the French. They’ve been at it for the past three days, ever since they arrived. My lovely little helper also let me know that Douleur has a thing for silks, and I just happen to have a cargo hold full of them. You are the model, the bot pulls a sample load, we trade for your boyfriend and we get out of here. Is that clear? No shenanigans, no crazy rescue attempts. No trying to get even. You will also not let anyone know your name. Tonight you are Eunice.”

  “Eunice?” Marguerite pretended to gag. “What is it with you and terrible names? First the Henrietta, now Eunice?”

  Butterfield had moved to the trunk and opened the lid to look at the wares inside, but now turned on Marguerite, her face just as stern, but also cracked with a bit of emotion. “I’ll have you know, this ship is named after my tiny daughter. She was the most beautiful, perfect thing you ever laid eyes on. I lost her and her father to the Barbary pox on a run to the Canary Islands. So I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Eunice.”

  “I’m very sorry, Captain.” Marguerite was sorry. She hadn’t ever considered that the rough, ill-tempered woman could have had a family, much less children. She also couldn’t imagine what it would be like to suddenly lose all of that. She thought of Lucy as well, having lost all of her family to disease, and was simultaneously grateful for her health and sorry for her big mouth. She wanted to stop putting her foot in her mouth but wasn’t quite sure how. She wasn’t sure how to keep from getting herself into situations that required her body to fly through the air either. She would have to work on both of those.

  “It’s neither here nor there. Make my night easy, and I’ll forgive you. Marguerite looked at Outil again. The bot nodded slightly, and Marguerite sighed, remembering her promise. Captain reached into the trunk and pulled out a blue silk gown of the latest style, and a slightly less elegant green frock. “This one will do for you,” she held up the blue. “And this one I will take for your friend, Lucy.”

  “Very well,” Marguerite nodded, taking the gown and laying it on the bed. “Just let me finish my food. I need all my strength to keep my mouth shut.” Twenty minutes later they were docked and showing papers to the local authority—if you could call him that. He wore a Britland military hat, but his cloak was shabby and clearly not originally his own, as it bore the emblem of a French aerman. The rest of him was dressed in gunnysack, and it didn’t appear that he was fond of shaving. He had several companions at the dock house that were drinking heavily and weren’t worried at all about a ship coming in after dark.

  They received no warnings or questions about criminals or illegal activity. There wasn’t even a search of their goods when Butterfield mentioned that the silks were for Captain Douleur’s private collection. “This is a strictly don’t ask, don’t tell community,” Butterfield was able to whisper to them once the pirates had left them alone. They marched right off the lift and out into the city. Outil pulled a cart, and Lucy and Marguerite walked behind, a slender chain connecting their bound wrists to the end of the cart. Butterfield took the lead and marched them down muddy streets and dark buildings to a street that shown with yellow lights, both flame and artificial.

  As they turned the corner and the lights came into full view, Marguerite couldn’t help but gasp. The lights didn’t just come from windows. They were strung across the street. A bonfire burned in the center outside of a tavern. Men and women danced and laughed, stumbling drunk and merry with life. Everything was covered in a film of dust, it seemed. They marched past makeshift autocarts and peddler carts loaded with fine wines. Some of the labels Marguerite recognized from her homeland. Their little parade was only gawked at by bots, of which there seemed to be an unusual amount out in the streets without a human at their side.

  Eventually, they came to the doors of a tall wooden building crammed between two other shorter buildings. It was night, and Marguerite couldn’t ma
ke out many details, but it was most assuredly the loudest establishment on the block. The doors were thrown wide, and the light poured out into the street adding to the effect. Music came from within, as well as laughter and the occasional body, stumbling or being tossed out the door.

  Butterfield led them to the door and instructed Outil to stay with the cart. It only held a few bolts of cloth, but Marguerite knew their worth was high above that of any peddler’s rum. Bots and humans mingled inside. Game tables were set up on the perimeter, and the center was open to dancing. On a chair in the middle of all of this noise, stood a man in a strange suit of bright colors throwing balls up in the air and catching them in difficult positions. The crowd cheered and whooped every time he caught another, and each time he threw the next higher. A bot was sitting at a clavichord in the corner, pounding a quick melody on the keys and leaving Marguerite to wonder that they hadn’t already broken from the heavy hand.

  A tall, brown-skinned man with tight cotton pants an inch too short for him and a leather holster filled with bullets slung over his chest stood at the door. Two guns rested on his hips. One hand idly fondled a gun while he reached the other out and stopped Butterfield. “There’s no soliciting tonight, slaver. Wait till morning,” he growled.

  “I’m not waiting another minute. These lovely ladies and the silks are here for Douleur. If the day breaks on this shipment before she sees it, it will be my head and your neck.” Marguerite did not like the term slaver and instantly tensed. She tried to slip her hand to her gun in her pocket for comfort, but remembering her hands were bound, she let them fall lamely in front of her. The man grunted again and nodded across the room to an antiquated copper bot, which also nodded and walked to a corner in the back of the roaring tavern. The first man kept his arm out and didn’t move until the bot returned. A very tall, very striking woman followed him. She was wearing all black, and although she held a strong drink in her hand, she was nowhere near being out of her wits.

  “Butterfield,” She said the name like it was something foul she accidentally ate for dinner. Captain Butterfield bowed low and yanked on the chain indicating the girls should do the same. They both dipped their heads, and all three rose to see the look of annoyance on the woman’s face. The two captains together made a strange pair. Butterfield wore a frumpy brown cotton shirt and jacket with the worn pants of a deck hand. Her hair was as wild and unruly as ever, sticking out from all sides of her tricorn hat. Her face was brown from years on the open deck of a ship, and her eyes were a dull brown behind droopy lids. Douleur, on the other hand, was tall and thin, but her slender arms were lined with the definition of muscles used to hard work. Her black dress was of the finest silks and design, and she stood with a regal air. Her brown waving hair had the slightest hint of grey streaks but was combed up in a fashionable style. Her face was a porcelain picture of loveliness, but her eyes were penetrating and sharp, giving away her true nature of cruelty and contempt.

  “Captain Douleur. So very nice to see you again,” Butterfield seemed, for the first time, to be a bit out of her element, nervous even.

  “I can’t say that the feeling is mutual. What have you brought me that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” She looked at the girls with disinterest. Marguerite tried to be patient and watch the night unfold, but it was not easy.

  “Silks from Paris, Captain. There are more outside on the cart.”

  “And two servants to boot.” Douleur lifted her glass at Marguerite and Lucy.

  “That remains to be seen, Captain.” Butterfield forced a tight smile. It was a bold statement considering the situation and Butterfield’s obvious insecurity around the famous pirate queen.

  “Have your bot bring the silks to my back room. The girls can come with me. Boots, take the chain.” Captain Douleur nodded to the copper bot to take the chain.

  Up close, Marguerite could see that the bot wasn’t antiquated as much as neglected. He stood six feet tall with wide square shoulders and thick limbs, quite the opposite of the slender, streamlined Outil. He’d probably had a fine polish at one point, but no one had cleaned his gears past oiling in a while. He was covered in patches of green patina, and the lower half of both legs and feet were solid green making it appear as if he was stomping around in tall green boots. It was easy to see where he got his name.

  Marguerite bumped into Butterfield, intentionally trying to get her attention so she could ask what she should expect now, but the square woman just walked out of the tavern without acknowledging the girls. Marguerite was feeling better about the fact that she’d shoved her goggles and gun in the pockets of her skirt, but less happy about the fact that she didn’t think she could get her hands out of the chain without help.

  The bot named Boots pulled them through the crowded room following Captain Douleur. As they passed beside the man on the chair throwing balls, he reached out a foot and poked Lucy in the back of the head, never missing a beat. The crowd roared with laughter. Lucy tucked her head in annoyance and gave a quick look of annoyance to Marguerite that said—this better work.

  They weaved past the crowd, eventually coming to a private room in the back. The bot led them in and closed the door, blocking out most of the din. Marguerite was impressed with what she saw. The furniture was of excellent taste, finely crafted, and looked extremely comfortable. Any of the pieces before her would not have seemed out of place in her own home in France.

  There was a card table in one corner, several armchairs with downy seats, and two settees flanking a fireplace big enough to roast a whole pig in. A door on the other side of the room opened revealing yet another bot and Captain Butterfield, followed by Outil, whose arms were filled with bolts of silk. Captain Douleur lay languidly on a settee and motioned for Outil to come near. “Lay the bolts here.” She indicated the other settee. “Yes, I’ll take these. Do you have any others?” She looked closely at Marguerite and Lucy, lingering far too long on Marguerite’s face.

  Marguerite’s throat tightened and she fought down a wave of anxiety as she wondered if this fearsome pirate captain known for torture and cruelty had seen her the day she’d accidentally attacked Douleur’s ship. Maybe she’d been given notice to watch out for Marguerite, the international criminal, just like the officials at the Tower of Bombay. Either way, she didn’t like the woman’s stare, and she looked away as long as she could bear it. When Douleur did not relent, Marguerite sighed out loud and met her scrutiny straight on. She obviously sees something in me. No use in acting like a helpless simpering debutant, she thought. Douleur quickly turned to Outil who was laying out three more bolts of bright colored silks and satin on the small sofa. “I do not care for the peuce,” Douleur said. “But I’ll take the rest. What is your price?”

  “One thousand francs.” Marguerite, Lucy, and Outil all turned to look at Butterfield in unison.

  “That seems quite high,” Douleur said. “Unless you were meaning to throw in the girls and the bot as well. I like the looks of this bot.”

  Butterfield didn’t even hesitate a heartbeat before she replied. “Done.”

  Douleur waved a hand at a woman standing in the corner Marguerite hadn’t noticed before. She was wearing men’s clothing, plus two pistols, and a sour expression. She walked to a small chest and opened it, pulling out gold coins.

  Marguerite forgot herself and charged at the pudgy little woman, yanking on the chain, which in turn yanked Lucy off balance. “You said you’d trade the silks for Jacques. What kind of game are you playing? I am not for sale!”

  Captain Douleur sat up with a look of amusement on her face, “Jacques Laviolette? Have you come to save your lovely Captain? Boots, fetch Captain Jacques, please.” She sat back on her sofa smiling and took a sip of her drink.

  “Unchain my hands at once,” Marguerite demanded. “We will sell you the silks for Jacques Laviolette’s freedom, and that is all.”

  “This one is fiery, Butterfield. Where did you pick her up?” Douleur continued t
o look amused as Marguerite struggled to wiggle her hands out of their chains.

  “I picked them both up in Montreal. They are more trouble than they’re worth. The bot is quite amazing, though. Almost human. I should raise the price.”

  “How about I let you keep your life?” Douleur looked at Butterfield in a way that made Marguerite’s heart ice over. This woman was cruel. She could easily see Douleur doing any of the things she was rumored to have done. It was Lucy’s turn to be upset now, “Captain Butterfield, I have served you faithfully for years, why are you doing this?” Big tears spilled down her warm brown cheeks.

  “My girls, if you’ve served with Butterbuns here for years, then the first thing you should have noticed is that she’s always only in it for herself. I’m fairly certain these silks were destined for the governor of Charleston’s brats. Am I right?” Douleur’s expression had softened again, but the edge was still there.

  “Oh, no, Ma’am,” Butterfield stammered. “I picked them up off a frigate stranded outside New Amsterdam.”

  “I don’t care where you got them—” Douleur started but was interrupted by the door opening.

  “What is it now?” a familiar deep male voice filled the room. Marguerite knew it at once. She turned to see Jacques walk into the room, a free man, no chains, and no whips. He was whole and unharmed and looked surprisingly good, considering he was being held captive by the most feared pirate in the world. His pants were the same, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. Gear grease smeared his arms and hands, and a bit was on his face, but other than that, he seemed well rested, if not in ornery spirits.

  “Jacques!” Marguerite tried to move to him, but the chain jerked her back. Outil took two steps forward, but Jacques held out a hand to stop her and stepped toward Marguerite.