LITMIR.BIZ

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Defouling Day on the Pieces of Eight. It turned out that the auspicious date had not come soon enough, for seagulls had made homes for themselves in several of the aft cannons, thoroughly clogging them with their nests and droppings. The four-pounders, although much better off, were choked with spider webs, not to mention rust, dust, salt, and seaweed.

      Despite being too little to help carry the smaller cannon barrels up to the main deck for cleaning, Little Jane’s job was still crucial to the success of the enterprise. It was she who was responsible for tying the knots that held the cannons in place and with her small, speedy fingers she was exceptionally good at it.

      She had just tied down the second aft cannon, called “Mr. J. Thunders” (all cannons on the Pieces had names), when Ned Ronk sent her down to storage to get more grease.

      Little Jane returned to find the rest of the crew hard at work on the other cannons — “General Wolfe” and “Typhoon.” She noticed Mr. J. Thunders moving in an odd sort of way as she approached.

      The Pieces of Eight listed to port as the ship hit a big wave. All at once, J. Thunders rolled free, burst through the railings, and plunged towards the sea in a shower of splintering wood.

      Little Jane tried to snatch the ropes as they slithered past her ankles. She managed to grab one mooring rope and held on with all her might. Her arms and shoulders shook with the effort, but she was too weak to stay the cannon’s progress one iota. The rope shot through her hands like a live thing, stripping the skin off her palms as it went. Then the cannon paused in its descent, swaying precariously just below the railing, held fast by one unbroken strand of rope.

      She grabbed the taunt rope.

      For one miraculous second it held. She pulled with every fibre in her body, ignoring the coarse hempen hairs of the rope as they poked into the raw flesh of her palms.

      J. Thunders swayed below her like a pendulum, striking the hull of the ship with a sickening sound of shattering timber.

      She might as well have tried to bend iron.

      The single strand broke and the rope exploded out, lashing out at Little Jane like a whip across her forehead. She fell senseless to the ground and J. Thunders tumbled into the ocean, never to be seen again.

      It had all taken little more than a few seconds.

      A flurry of orders broke out and Long John rushed over to where Little Jane lay, just coming to, on her back on the deck. She opened her eyes to find herself enfolded in his brawny arms.

      The pirate captain’s concern poured out in a babbling stream of words. “Jane — Jane, oh Jane, thank God — what — what was ye doing? Yer head! Good lord! What was you thinking? You’re hurt!”

      But Little Jane just sat blinking at the broken railing and the rust-stained deck planks where the massive cannon had been, as if it were all a mirage. It seemed impossible that such a huge thing as J. Thunders had so suddenly up and disappeared.

      “Not hurt,” she replied vaguely, but her forehead felt hot and wet in the place the rope had struck her and there was blood around the cuffs of her shirtsleeves.

      “You are hurt!” protested Long John.

      “I’m not hu—” she started to argue, but then the palms of her hands began to smart so terribly that tears filled her eyes.

      “What happened?” asked her Papa.

      “I … I …” What had happened anyway? She had tied up the cannon’s ropes, and then gone down below to get the fat to grease the wheels. She had come up again and J. Thunders was … going over the side? It made no sense. She groped in her mind for some explanation.

      “It’s her fault!” someone shouted. “The cannon ropes weren’t tied proper!”

      Without looking, even through her throbbing headache and burning hands, she knew that voice.

      “Eh?” Long John looked up, puzzled.

      “Look!” Ned Ronk cried and he pointed to the empty deadlights fixed to the deck that the rope should have been tied to.

      Gasps and curses broke forth from the crowd of sailors.

      Long John looked from Little Jane to the deadlights and back again. “Jane …”

      “It weren’t me,” she swore vehemently through her tears. “It weren’t me! I swear it!”

      “But it was your job — tyin’ down the cannons!” called out Changez.

      “How we gonna defend ourselves now?” grumbled Mac the gunsmith.

      “Shaddup, woodworms!” bellowed Long John. “We still got a slew o’ cannons! Leave ’er out of it!”

      But somehow this did little to staunch the crew’s anger toward Little Jane. She curled up further into her father’s belly, making herself as tiny as possible, trying hard to pretend she did not hear the voices of people she’d known and lived with like family all her life turning so swiftly against her.

      “What you get fer letting a child do a man’s job,” muttered a scornful Cabrillo.

      “Just ’cause she’s kin to the captains—”

      “No good ever come of having a girl-child onboard, I always says, but no one ever listened—”

      “An ol’ fashion floggin’ oughta teach ’er!”

      “SHUT YER TRAPS!” bellowed Captain Bright, face scarlet with rage as she stomped onto the poop deck, brought up from her charting work below to investigate the source of the sudden commotion.

      “He’s right, Cap’n,” said Ned Ronk evenly to Bonnie Mary. “She oughta be flogged. If it were any one of us, we’d have to learn our lesson. This ship’s supposed to be a floating republic! With all respect, Cap’n Bright, you and Cap’n Silver ain’t kings and queens here. We all signed the charter! Equal parts o’ everything!”

      “I tied it right! I did!” Little Jane protested, but even to her the words sounded pathetically small against the tidal wave of angry voices.

      “Flog ’er! Flog ’er!” The chant rippled through the crew assembled on the deck.

      Little Jane listened, feeling strangely detached. The thing was, she understood. Although she had no desire to be flogged, she could see their point. You had to be able to trust everyone on your crew to do their job or you’d end up at the bottom of the ocean. A weak link in the chain could easily mean death, and there was enough to deal with at sea without your shipmates proving unreliable.

      In the face of it all, her resolve began to weaken. She wondered whether she really had tied the knot off properly. It was possible it hadn’t been tight enough. She should have double checked. She should have asked. She should have—

      The terrible thunder of her father’s voice cut through her thoughts.

      “She’s under my command,” growled Captain Silver. “My responsibility. You all want te flog someone? Flog me!”

      With a dramatic gesture, Long John tore his shirt off and flung it to the deck. His broad torso shone with sweat. The tattoo of a skull in flames grinned back at the protesters, a prediction of the dire fate that lay in store for any man fool enough to cross the captain.

      Although Little Jane had not initially seen her father remove the elegant mother-of-pearl handled duelling pistol from his belt, she saw it in his hand now. He held it loosely, as one would hold some meaningless accessory, but his show of carelessness fooled no one.

      The entire ship grew silent. Waiting.

      Unruffled, Ned glared back from the other side of the deck.

      Little Jane heard the slapping of the waves against the hull clearly in the silence.

      Then Long John was crossing the length of the deck toward the boatswain. He did not rush at Ned, but moved deliberately, the way one might

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