its glorious incomprehensibility down in her book.
As she spent more time learning from Mendoza, Little Jane gained a new respect for the intense woman’s skill. Mendoza’s own modus operandi, Little Jane came to realize, was an almost touchingly iron-clad confidence in her own superiority.
The very idea that someone could ever get the better of her simply never crossed her mind. Thus, whether she took high tea at the spas in Bath with the sons of nobles or dined on hard tack in the mess with a band of pirates, mattered not a jot to her. In her mildly delusion opinion she was always the best person in the room no matter who she kept company with. The only authority she ever bowed before was another person’s skill with the blade.
Slowly it began to dawn on Little Jane that if such an attitude could benefit Mendoza, it might go far to solving her own personal dilemma.
Little Jane flipped open her book to a fresh page and wrote, “If you believe you are something, other people will come to believe it, too. Believe you are a grown sailor of good standing and the rest of the crew will follow suit.”
An easy enough thing to write, she mused the next day, as they sailed toward Habana harbour, but not always the simplest advice to put into practice.
“Steady on course,” bellowed Captain Bright as Habana came into view.
“Tighten up that topsail!” yelled Ned Ronk.
Mustering all her courage, Little Jane marched up to the resistant topsail line and gave it a tug.
Seeing Little Jane on the line, Ned frowned.
Steeling her trembling soul within her, Little Jane gazed coolly back at the boatswain.
He wouldn’t dare harm a hair on her head with her mother so close at hand. She narrowed her eyes at him. I belong here, she thought. I’m the daughter of the greatest pirates to sail the seas, mate. Child of the ocean herself and you ain’t nothing next to me.
As if sensing her unspoken words, Ned Ronk turned to the closest seaman, flustered. “You there, Changez, we need an extra. Get on that line with the child!”
Changez pulled the line back with a quick jerk of his muscular arms and tied it off in no time at all, but Little Jane didn’t care. She had made the fearsome Ned Ronk flinch. Not only that, but they would be in La Habana soon, where she’d be up to her eyeballs in fresh fruit, spicy food, music, parties, and more trinkets to waste money on than you could shake a stick at.
She made a promise to herself then that she would tell her parents about Ned’s threats once they reached Habana. And as soon as that nasty business was taken care of she would do something about Melvin. Regardless of the so-called magic codes, spells, or octopus-related names that might be written on him, she was going to ditch that stupid Melvin and make her parents buy her a real sword! Once she had a proper weapon by her side, old Ned Ronk wouldn’t dare threaten her!
At least, she thought with a gulp, she hoped not.
Chapter 6
A Night in Habana
This was not Little Jane’s first time in Habana, nor would it be her last, but in retrospect, it was the one she would in later years recall the most.
On a ship, days take on a kind of characteristic sameness, one melding seamlessly into another, but in Habana it was a different story entirely.
The first day in San Cristóbal Harbour, half the crew was sent off to sample the pleasures of the city while the other half prepared to throw a spectacular party onboard the Pieces of Eight. Sailors would come from every ship, tavern, and rooming house around, bringing food and drink in enormous quantities.
Anticipation filled the air onboard. Little Jane drank it in, feeling even less inclined to sit still than normal. This was just fine with her parents, as there were plenty of errands that needed doing before the big fiesta.
As word spread through the narrow streets of San Cristóbal, the dancers and music-makers began to trickle in. The women wore colourful head wraps, cowry shells in their braided hair, and skirts trimmed with coins that jingled merrily as they traipsed up the gangplank. The men came next, bearing African-style jugs covered in small bells. There were drums aplenty, too, in every size and shape, as well as an assortment of odd instruments Little Jane could not identify, most of which she suspected the islanders had invented themselves, cobbled together from various bits and pieces found lying around.
In the midst of the preparations — tasting, embracing, dancing, drinking, and singing with their crew and guests — were Long John and Bonnie Mary, dressed to the nines in clothes bright enough to put a parrot’s feathers to shame, the most convivial hosts to ever grace the isle of Hispaniola before or since.
The party went on as the sun dipped down, its golden reflection skipping in the purple wavelets of the water below. For a moment the entire party paused to heave a collective sigh of appreciation at the melding of the colours of water and sky. The timbers of the Pieces of Eight glowed warm and yellow, gilded by the sunset, looking to Little Jane’s eyes like the whole ship really was a giant pieces of eight coin of Spain.
Then the sound of Bonnie Mary’s fiddle came climbing up through the dusk to fill the silence. She drew the bow lazily across the strings like a caress, letting a single note hover in the humid air.
The drummers took up a slow beat, and then, without any warning, Bonnie Mary launched into a frenzy of playing. As the bow see-sawed with maddening speed across the strings, a woman in a bright patchwork skirt took Little Jane by the hand and twirled her out into the centre of the drum circle. She flew from hand to hand among the jingling women and their companions, stomping her feet and clapping her hands. Then she let Sharpeye Sharpova take her by the wrists and spin her around, lifting her feet clear off the ground, and when they knocked over a tall drum along with its drummer, the man only laughed as he righted his instrument because he hadn’t spilled a single drop of his rum.
Hours later, tired out from the festivities, Little Jane lay her head on a grain sack by the railing, letting the smoky scent of the barbeque mingled with the steady rhythm of the surf against the ship’s hull carry her away on a slumberous wave.
She was dozing lightly when an unusual sound dragged her from her sleep. Thwork-thwok, thwork-thwok. Like the sound of knotted rope striking wood.
Scriiiiiiich-scraaaaaaape. Now it sounded like someone was scraping down the hull of the ship for barnacles somewhere close by … Right below her, in fact.
“Ooof!” someone cried.
She sat up. Now that sound was definitely suspicious. Little Jane craned her neck over the railing.
Not ten feet away, a length of knotted rope hung from the ship’s railing. At the end of the rope she saw a shadowy figure rappelling down the ship’s hull, just as one would rappel down the sheer side of a cliff.
As Little Jane watched in sleepy fascination, the figure reached the end of the rope and with a soft splash landed in the water. The mysterious figure dog-paddled, struggling through the murky water in the harbour to the pier.
Little Jane, overcome with curiosity, knew she had to follow.
With a quick tug of the
