Little Jane and the Nameless Isle Read online

“I’d sooner die working the deck than lying in me bed like a bleedin’ coward!” exclaimed Ishiro. “On any account, I’m much improved. Whatever you puts in that drink, it’s better’n sake.”

  “But you’re the cook,” argued Villienne. “Begging your pardon, sir, but even I know that it takes more than a little culinary knowledge to command a sailing vessel.”

  “I’ll have Little Jane here to help me,” replied Ishiro. “Not to mention the fact that, like yourself, I am a man of many talents. Betting, for instance.”

  “Betting?”

  “Aye, betting. For example, right now I’m willing to bet I know exactly where that other ship’s taken ’em.”

  They all watched as Ishiro picked Jonesy’s steak knife off the table and walked over to the dusty mirror hanging behind the bar. He slid the knife into a gap under the right corner of the frame, forcing the point in under the glass. With a grunt, he twisted the knife and the mirror gave way. The glass tumbled out of the frame and crashed to pieces on the floor.

  “What in blazes did you do that for?” asked Jonesy. “Are you completely off your nut, Ish? That glass was still in good nick!”

  It had taken Ishiro much effort to remove the glass in his current weakened state, but now he stood triumphant in front of the back of the frame, his purpose revealed. Stepping delicately over the broken pieces of glass on the floor, Little Jane made her way to where he stood, ducking up under his arm so she could see what he saw. With a shaking hand, the cook pointed at the cardboard backing. Little Jane could just make out a picture there. It was a strange floating landscape painted with a black calligraphy brush. And she was certain that the hand that had painted it — his style still recognizable even after so many years — was that of Ishiro Soo-Yun.

  But this was no simple landscape painting. Alongside it were pairs of numbers side by side — she recognized them from her mother’s weekly navigation lessons as coordinates of longitude and latitude.

  Little Jane smiled. She could read them. Two thumb widths west of Grand Cayman Island, right above where Ishiro’s finger touched the picture, was a little dot of an island. Beside it, in tiny, careful print, she read the words Nameless Land Mass.

  “The Nameless Isle,” Little Jane whispered. Suddenly, it all made sense. “Of course, whoever took them would be wanting to go there. Some villain must’ve heard tell of the treasure. Ned! He’d be the man spreadin’ it around, I wager.”

  “You couldn’t ’ave just told us that without damaging the furnishings, eh?” complained Jonesy.

  “Sorry, Mr. Jones. Flares of the dramatics, and all, I guess.” Ishiro shrugged sheepishly.

  “Ned knew the coordinates, too,” said Little Jane with frustration. “It were his job to take the captains’ instructions to the crew and make sure they was followed.”

  “We have to get to the island afore they do,” added Ishiro firmly. “It’s the only hope they got. Do you think Ned knows where the loot’s hid?”

  “Impossible! The coordinates of the island, yes, the location of the treasure, never,” scoffed Little Jane. “Me parents weren’t trusting him that far. They’re the only ones what ever dared go.”

  “How clever,” said Villienne excitedly, as if it were all the plot of some grand adventure story he’d just discovered. “The captains wouldn’t have any from the crew follow them to the island, for fear of someone else discovering where they’d been hiding their ill-gotten gains all these years, is that right?”

  Jonesy cocked an eyebrow at Villienne. “Ill-gotten gains? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Little Jane. “It’s because the island’s cursed, that’s all.”

  “Cursed?” asked Villienne.

  “Everyone knows my parents were the only ones what ever survived a night on the isle. I ain’t never seen no one else go there meself to test out the curse, but I think it still stands.”

  “But then, that’s good,” said Villienne.

  “It’s good that me parents was captured and forced to show this pirate hunter around a cursed island what might kill them?”

  “No, it’s good because whoever captured them will need the captains alive to make sure they lead them the right way to the treasure.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

  “I take it you and your parents are the only ones who know exactly where on the island the loot is hidden?” asked Villienne.

  “No, only them,” said Little Jane softly. “I was never told.”

  “Why didn’t they tell you?” asked her cousin tactlessly. “That loot be your inheritance.”

  Why hadn’t her parents trusted her with their secrets? She was their daughter and Ishiro was just a friend, after all. Why hadn’t they bothered to tell her where they’d hidden their loot?

  “And what about you now, Jonesy?” asked Ishiro shrewdly. “Ain’t they told you? Yer blood relatives with Bonnie Mary. She say anything to you about where the loot’s hid?”

  “Uh … well, now that ye mention it, someone might’ve said somefing.” Jonesy scratched his head.

  “So why’re you holdin’ out on us, Jonesy?” asked Harley.

  Suddenly, Jonesy seemed very preoccupied with polishing the spoon he’d lent to Villienne.

  “Mr. Stevin Jones, your duty to the captains is clear,” said Ishiro in a voice he’d last used years ago to urge reluctant men to battle. “I swear to you, their secret won’t ever leave this room. Now tell us, where did Long John and Bonnie Mary hide it?”

  “All right,” Jonesy answered, in a barely audible voice. Little Jane had no idea her big, gruff cousin could make such a tiny sound. “They did tell me.”

  “And?” they all asked at once.

  “And then …” Jonesy looked down. “I forgot.”

  “What?”

  “They’d no business trusting me,” he burst out. “They knew I were a brawler in me younger days. Little Jane, I’m sorry,” Jonesy implored his cousin. “You know I was hit in the head so many times I can’t even remember the words to ‘Bottle of Rum’ to save me life — and I’ve heard that song a thousand times. How’d they think I’d remember the code — a whole bunch of foreign words I ain’t ever heard before?”

  Little Jane gaped at her cousin. Even if by some miracle they managed to get a boat to the Nameless Isle, they’d never be able to locate the hidden cache of loot before the pirate hunters got to it. Not if the pirate hunters had her parents’ knowledge and they had nothing.

  This is it then, she thought. We’ll never win. Her eyes spilled over with tears.

  Seeing his little cousin cry so openly, Jonesy felt his own heart nearly crack in two. “So many times I been wanting to ask them to tell me again, but I were always too shamed to do it. I never meant to let them down, Jane. They gave me a chance, back when there weren’t nobody else in the world what would. If there be anything I can do to fix this, I’ll do it, I swear.”

  Jonesy looked so forlorn that she thought he might weep too. Little Jane reached out and squeezed his large, branded hand. “There are plenty o’ maps in their room upstairs. One of them might be a map of the island. Don’t matter if we have to look all over the island without the coordinates, we’ll find them, I know we will!” she said, filling her voice up with as much confidence as she could muster. “Just get me to the island and I’ll figure it out. Maybe they’ve left some clues there to lead us to them, who knows?” She looked around at the serious faces that surrounded her. “So, who’s with me?”

  Jonesy shook off his grief and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I suppose it beats sitting around here on our wobble-bottoms, as you said. Only thing is, how’re we going to get us a ship?”

  “We could steal one,” suggested Harley.

  “A whole ship? Don’t be daft,” Jonesy said.

  “But you’re pirates,” Villienne commented, genuinely curious as to the reasons for their refusal. “Is that not what you do on a regular basis?”

  “Actua
lly, I was a pirate. I’m your butler now,” Harley corrected his employer.

  “And I’m just a barkeep with an unfortunate memory problem,” added Jonesy.

  “We prefer to be called privateers, not pirates, anyway,” Little Jane commented.

  “And most privateers are not complete idiots,” sniffed Ishiro. “There’s no port anywhere I can think of with a dock that ain’t crawling with soldiers paid for nothing but the guarding of ships. It’s a whole lot easier to steal a ship at sea where there’s no one around to watch.”

  “So we got to rent us a ship then,” suggested Jonesy.

  “And for that we be needin’ gold,” said Harley.

  “Hmmm,” Ishiro muttered, deep in thought, “gold …”

  Idly, Little Jane studied the map that had been hidden behind the mirror, wondering if it held any more clues. Her gaze came to rest on its frame. It was pewter work of a very old, ornate style with patches of gold. Suddenly, she had an idea.

  “We could start by selling this picture frame. It might make us a little gold, don’t you think?”

  Jonesy scratched his head. “You know, now that you mention it, I do have a souvenir silver teaspoon from Brighton. Might be worth somefing.”

  “How about this gold watch?” offered Villienne, pulling a large watch on a chain from his pocket. “It doesn’t actually work, but it really looks like it might, wouldn’t you say?”

  Little Jane looked thoughtfully at the watch. “You know, I think that might work.”

  “Oh, no.” Villienne laughed. “I assure you, this watch is really quite broken.”

  “No, I mean this brilliant idea that just came to me. Jonesy, remember the time we went to that big market in Jamaica?”

  “The one in Kingston?”

  “Aye. Remember you was sayin’ a fellow could sell anything there. Anything.”

  Her cousin grinned, finally beginning to catch her drift. “Anything that can be carted or carried or shipped or ferried. There’s people there what’d buy our junk even.”

  Little Jane smiled back. They had a plan.

  Captain Madsea no longer ventured into the Panacea’s stateroom to dine with the other officers these days. It had been a week at least since he’d last set foot on deck and yet another rumour was scurrying through the Panacea, fleet as a rat fleeing a sinking ship, that the captain might die any day.

  Madsea lay abed in his stateroom, undergoing the patient ministrations of Doc Lewiston, his personal physician.

  “Not the first time they’ve said that about me,” observed the captain dryly, when informed of the talk going round.

  Though it could be the last, thought Lewiston, worry corrugating his brow. He blew on a cup of medicinal tea and raised it to Madsea’s cracked lips. The captain lifted his head weakly off the pillow, but made no motion to open his mouth.

  “Come on, Captain, just a drop,” Lewiston coaxed. “I put some rose hips in it that should clear those lungs right up.”

  “Fine, fine,” rasped Madsea. “Long as you keep those filthy leeches off me.”

  Lewiston sheepishly nudged a wriggling basket of leeches under the bed with the toe of his boot, hoping the captain wouldn’t spot them.

  “Did he eat anything for breakfast?” Lewiston asked the steward, Darsa.

  “A bite or two of eel pancake, sir,” replied the young man, with a nervous glance at the fireplace where Doc Lewiston was busy tapping out the ashes of his pipe. Darsa was right to be nervous. Soon Lewiston noticed the hastily hidden wad of blood-speckled handkerchiefs wedged under the unlit coals.

  Upon closer inspection, Lewiston noticed more handkerchiefs on the floor that hadn’t even made it the short distance to the fireplace. Doc Lewiston frowned. He always knew things were getting bad when the captain started losing his aim.

  “What’s all this?” asked Lewiston accusingly, holding one up with the end of the fire poker.

  “I thought I told you to clean this place up,” Captain Madsea hissed at the hapless Darsa.

  “Sorry, Capt’n,” muttered the steward as he grabbed a broom.

  With a sigh, Lewiston lit the fire and watched it consume the much-abused handkerchiefs. Darsa left as quickly as he could.

  “You must listen to me, Fetzcaro,” insisted Lewiston once Darsa had left. He was taking unusual liberty in using the captain’s first name, but Lewiston knew if he didn’t get the stubborn man’s attention somehow his captain would soon be dead. “This over-exertion must stop. Your health can’t take much more. You mark my words; it’ll kill you if you continue.”

  “It makes no difference. I’ll die anyway,” said Madsea, resigned. “As long as I live long enough to mete out the punishment those two blackguards deserve and to reclaim the bounty that is rightfully mine, I’ll go to me maker in peace.”

  “You see,” groaned Lewiston with mounting frustration, “that’s it right there. That’s the problem — your preoccupation with this fabled treasure. It’s preposterous. What sort of pirate saves up twenty years’ worth of loot anyway? I’ve been a physician to navies and sailors half my life and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that there’s nobody better at losing money in a hurry than your average seaman. And pirates are the worst of the wicked lot! Providence! Even Admiral Collingwood himself was known to blow an entire month’s pay packet on powdered wigs in less than an hour. Not to mention Lord Nelson and his silverware collection. And these were respectable men, heroes to the nation even. If you had an ounce of sense, Captain, you’d know that every single penny those pirates ever made is long gone, spent lining the pockets of tavern keepers from Calais to Cape Town. This legend of a cache of gold is nothing but a fool’s fantasy.”

  “And I would agree with you on all points if we were talking about your ordinary, average pirate. But not these two, Lewy. I know these scoundrels inside and out. Seamen of a most irregular sort, Bright and Silver are — schemers, master-plotters, cunning deceivers, and hoarders most foul. You mark my words; I’d wager they’ve been laying up that treasure on the island for years. Just ask that man Ronk from their ship. He’ll attest to it.”

  Doc Lewiston shook his head. “You’re risking everything on the word of one man. And him a traitor to his own captain at that! How do you expect to go tramping around some godforsaken tropical island in the middle of flaming nowhere looking for some hypothetical treasure anyway, when you can barely lift your head off the pillow?”

  “I shall be serviceable by the time we reach the island,” said Madsea firmly. “You will see to that.”

  “Then you have far more confidence in my abilities than I do.” Lewiston snorted.

  “The will can be quite a powerful instrument, my medical friend, and I will find that treasure, you’ll see.” Madsea’s words were bold, and even with his voice so ragged, there was ironclad determination in every syllable.

  He just might at that, thought Lewiston. He couldn’t help but admire the man’s tenacity.

  But then Madsea sank back down on his pillow, seemingly as weak as ever.

  “Mad-sea,” said Lewiston. “You’re an aptly named captain at that, you know.”

  “Oh, I do,” replied Madsea, a mocking smile briefly pulling at the corners of his lips.

  It wasn’t long before word spread throughout Smuggler’s Bay about the Great Sale. People trekked down to the Spyglass from near and far (and in the case of Smuggler’s Bay, “far” was a maximum of two miles away) to offer up their valuables to help fund the effort to rescue the crew of the Pieces of Eight.

  They’d collected a motley assortment of objects; some had no monetary value whatsoever, but Little Jane hadn’t the heart to reject anything freely given. The people of the Bay didn’t have much, but for the rescue fund they might need it all. Every dented tin cup, blunt carving knife, and water-damaged book was welcome in the pile of things to be sold at the great market in Kingston.

  Little Jane witnessed a family with but a single plate in their possession lay that treasured item
reverently down upon the pile like an offering. Little Jane was ashamed to take such a precious family heirloom, but she did. Despite being a pirate’s daughter, Little Jane had never really been particularly greedy or gold-crazy. However, her parents’ predicament seemed to have activated whatever latent portion of avarice lay slumbering within her, and so she took what they gave, no questions asked, and she was greatly moved by their generosity. The sale of such precious objects was a lot to knowingly entrust to a group of professional thieves, she had to admit, but then, except for Villienne, everyone on the island had someone they cared about on the Pieces of Eight.

  Soon all the little boats of the island, along with the Hallbrooks’ fishing vessel (Captain Hallbrook had generously offered to escort the rest of them back to his hometown of Kingston), were marshalled into a little convoy, prepared to set sail.

  Little Jane hefted her kit bag onto her shoulder as she took one last look around the Spyglass. Little that could be physically moved had survived the merciless culling. Even the tables and chairs were gone. She noticed a mug still resting on the bar and snagged that, too. Clutching the mug tight to her chest, she took one last look around, wondering if she would ever be back.

  At least some good had come of the captain’s resurgent illness. Without Madsea to stop him, Doc Lewiston now had free reign over the two pirate captains in the brig. This was pleasant news indeed to Long John and Bonnie Mary, who had been working on Lewiston all week to let them up on deck for a breath of fresh air.

  The good doctor agreed that a turn outside would do them good and so he procured the services of two sturdy sailors with two equally sturdy lengths of rope to serve as pirate-walkers.

  As humiliating as it is to be walked like a dog in front of one’s former crew members, after a week in the wretched environs of the brig the captains were ecstatic to be anyplace at all where they could actually feel the sun on their faces. They stood on deck blinking like a pair of moles, dazzled by the unaccustomed brilliance. Bonnie Mary sucked in a great lungful of fresh ocean air, and as the Panacea rolled gently to port, she felt the familiar spray of salt water on her cheek like a cleansing caress.