turning back to her gazings. Her eyes wandered freely now from left to right, surveying all the pinpricks of light coming from distant suns and planets. Occasionally she would stop and focus on one particular part of the sky and do incomprehensible calculations with her hands before resuming her searching of the skies.
“What have you found?” asked Bluebeard, drawing closer to his medium.
“Trouble,” she said. A great sadness was clear in her voice. “Trouble and strife and war and horror; great opportunity for booty, but also for danger; a hidden enemy like none we have encountered before, who can hide in shadows and in plain sight. Doom! Doom at the end of a reptilian leg!”
She fell silent and ceased her searching. Her eyes were now focused only upon those of her captain, something unexpected barely concealed within them.
“You,” she cooed. “You are the key to it all. You are the key to me!”
She glided towards the captain with arms extended and lips pouted. He, delighted by her drunken offer, accepted gladly, wordlessly, and locked lips with his eastern maiden. For a moment he forgot his search for Jack as the alcohol consumed his brain and he lost himself in the moment of passion.
It was short-lived. A body nearby moved and a shape leapt forward. Bluebeard turned to look, but saw no-one. The scene was as silent as ever, the crew as dead as ever. He returned to his wench and the pleasure of her touch.
The shape saw its opportunity and moved once more. In the corner of his eye Bluebeard saw it leap again from a different pile of bodies and speed full-pelt towards to ship’s prow.
The shape was unmistakeable now: it was that of a boy; specifically, Jack the Boy. His anger returned suddenly and filled him like a vessel, displacing the sweet incense of his lover’s touch. He rudely brushed aside his mistress, leaving her more bemused than offended, to set off after the boy in hot pursuit.
The boy was agile and quick, jumping like a gazelle between the obstacles and sleeping forms in his path. The captain was old and drunk; his movements were slower, clumsier, and on his way he woke several of his men. They grumbled loudly but were largely unable to make any kind of physical protests.
“Stop him! Stop the boy!” Bluebeard appealed to his crew, hoping that just one of them had restrained his drinking enough during the day to now be able to rise and join the chase. Yet there were no replies, save for unconscious moans and one unrecognisable voice which rudely told him to “shut it”. He was on his own.
“The gold is stolen!” he shouted out, trying to appeal to their sense of greed to rouse them. This worked, to an extent: two of his crew, who were leaning against the wheel, were not sleeping so deeply that news of stolen booty could not wake them. Timmy the Brick and Ethelred forced their bodies into a standing position with much difficulty and gazed around for the source of the news. They saw a small body charging towards them, followed by the lumbering form of their captain, unmistakeable by his hooked right hand and the mass of blue which adorned his face. In their drunken state, the Boy’s approach was like that of a small, floating orb of pale moonlight; they were confused at what it might be, but the fact of the Captain’s pursuit and the mention of stolen treasure roused them to action.
Wordlessly, the pair of them stepped in the way of the fleeing Jack. Yet he was too quick for them: when Bluebeard was but ten paces away and the trap should have enclosed perfectly, holding the Boy between them like a lamb in a pen, the Boy darted between the two crewmembers and knocked them over in the process. Timmy banged his head and was knocked out cold; Ethelred was left with the dubious gift of remaining conscious, only to find the wind knocked out of him by the heavy boot of his captain trundling over his collapsed body. Already old (by all accounts the oldest crewmember on the ship), the blow hit Ethelred hard and he was left wheezing as he watched his captain lumber away after the thief in the direction of the plank.
The plank could be found on the front of the ship. It was customary pirate punishment for miscreants and wrongdoers, and all those who defy the will of Captain Bluebeard in any way, to be forced to walk the plank and meet their end in the cold, cold water of the North Atlantic sea. Most of those who found themselves here were simply sport for the pirates, a bit of entertainment when a raid was far away. Yet the Boy was more than this: Bluebeard did not simply want to be amused by the drowning of this child. Rather, he was out for blood. His jaw was pushed forward like an angry Jack Russell and his eyes shot flames of fury in Jack’s direction.
Jack had, by now, reached the plank. He was standing on it, for there was nowhere else to go, trying his level best to balance and occasionally looking down nervously at the water below him. It was a calm, clear night, and the ship was not moving; nevertheless, there were ice-bergs visible in the distance. The water would be only just above freezing. Death would soon embrace him in such conditions.
Bluebeard was at the head of the plank on the very edge of his ship. He looked a ghostly figure in this light: face shrouded in darkness from the shade of his hat; beard glowing blue in the eerie light of the moon; eyes visible from beneath the darkness, staring out at his prey. Against the backdrop of a navy sky glinting with diamond stars and an empty ship sailing on undulating waters, Jack could very well have been looking at a ghost ship right now.
Except Bluebeard was no ghost. He was a living, breathing, heaving and raging man who the Boy had no choice but to deal with.
“Please,” he begged. “Please, I did not steal your gold.”
“Liar!” roared Bluebeard. “Where is it? Why run if you are innocent?”
“Because I’m scared,” Jack would have said, except for the fact that it does not do well to admit fear in the company of pirates. So he stayed silent and tried to glare his foe down, attempting the impossible task of looking both innocent and defiant at the same time.
Bluebeard placed his hands on the plank in a threatening, business-like manner and began to shake it up and down, side to side, trying to make Jack lose his balance and fall in the water- or else, confess. Yet Jack was adamant that he had nothing to confess. He leaned down and grabbed the plank with both his hands, too, to stop himself falling.
By now some of the crew had been roused by the running and shouting and implications of stolen gold. A small group was assembling around the captain, jeering and laughing, pointing and mocking. It was disconcerting how easily former friends could turn on you: there was Pointy Pete, with whom the Boy had often played darts, now baying for his blood; next to him, Agatha “Bottle-Neck” Saunders, the tomboy of the crew who Jack had enjoyed many a mock sword-fight with, now spitting on him in disgust.
“Give us the gold and we may spare your life,” offered Bluebeard. “Otherwise, into Davy Jones’ locker with you!”
The crowd around him cheered at the latter proposal and hurled insults and bottles at the Boy. He winced and covered himself with his arms, trying to give himself what little protection they could provide from the saliva and glass coming his way.
“Please,” he said again. “Please, I do not have the gold!”
Bluebeard’s face became crystallised, frozen like steel in an unmoving scowl. Pirates always enjoy a good plank-walking, but what he would have preferred was to have the gold back. Jack had sealed his fate: he would end his days in the freezing waters below him, all because he could not give up the loot. But what this meant was that the gold would still be missing and the only person who knew where it was would be gone. Still, Bluebeard had no choice: the Boy would never confess, so the plank was the only option for him.
“Well then, Boy,” he said darkly. “You’ll have to walk the plank.”
The other pirates cheered and leaned forward to watch the Boy’s lethal plunge into the miry deep. Their faces were etched with an excitement which even the whiskey could not have provided: no, this was a unique moment, the punishment of a traitor to the pirate’s code. There is little more satisfying for a pirate than watching a criminal meet his soggy end in the deep.
Jack looked around
nervously: to his left, to his right, behind him, hoping for some form of escape. And then he smiled.
“With pleasure, sir,” he said in an uncharacteristic voice. He bowed down to his audience, smiled a cheeky grin and practically dived off the plank into the waiting deep.
The pirates’ cheering died down and was replaced by a confused silence. Part of the pleasure of the plank-walking ceremony was to watch the terror in the victim’s face as he fell to his certain death. Yet something was wrong here: Jack had leapt into the water like a fish and was now happily doing a front crawl away from the boat into open water.
Then, suddenly, Bluebeard saw it. His jaw dropped. There was a boat out there: tiny, unlit, hidden by the vast expanse of dark water upon which it floated. It was only just about visible in the moonlit scene by the reflection of starlight on its hull; other than that it was invisible and would not have been noticed, had Jack not been swimming right for it.
“Telescope!” roared Bluebeard frantically to nobody in particular. “Fetch the telescope! Find out who those scurvy dogs out there are!”
Agatha “Bottle-Neck” Saunders, the soberest of the lot of them, rushed off to find it and returned within the minute. She gazed through its lens and reported quickly, in shocked tone:
“Ninjas. There are ninjas in that boat.”
A hushed silence swept over the scene. The chaotic jeering and mocking which had previously been there was gone. The ship really did come to feel like a ghost ship as the life drained from the pirates’ faces, each of them lost in fearful contemplation.
“But I thought the war was over,” murmured Pointy Pete.
“How many?” asked Bluebeard.
Agatha gazed down the telescope once more. “Three,” she reported. “And Jack. And…” She gulped. “And our gold. Jack took our gold and gave it to the ninjas.”
“The scoundrel!” yelled Bluebeard. He slammed his hook into the wood of the hull and there it lodged itself, stuck. “I trained him up in the ways of the pirates, and this is how he repays me?”
“He was a spy,” observed Agatha. “All along, he was a spy. For the ninjas.”
Agatha looked again through the telescope to get a better view. The boat was a simple rowing boat, its only distinguishing feature being a set of copper bolts attached to its side which glinted in the moonlight. Its oars were tucked inside and the four occupants were sitting on one end while the gold, contained within its ornate treasure chest, was on the other. The men in the boat were pushing up as hard as they could against their end in an effort to prevent the weight of the booty from sinking their tiny vessel. Nevertheless, despite the danger, they were happy. The four of them could be seen chatting away merrily: the three ninjas sitting statuesque with little smirks on their faces; the Boy gesticulating wildly as he told the tale of his daring escape.
They were several hundred metres away from the Merry Martin, yet they were almost invisible against the dark seascape. Agatha could only barely make out their shapes and most of what she could see was guesswork, the clever workings of her mind to interpret confusing images.
“It’s a rowing boat,” she announced. “The main ship must be close by.”
Bluebeard was, by now, virtually sober. Necessity had robbed his limbs of their drunken awkwardness and he was back to his normal, sharp-minded self.
“Sound the horn!” he called out. “Light the torches! Every man to his station! We’re catching ourselves some ninjas.”
Pointy Pete ran to get some light while Agatha picked up the nearby horn and blew with all her might. The crew was finally beginning to rouse themselves for they knew what the horn meant: danger, or else, adventure. They began to pick themselves up off the deck and struggle into standing positions, many of them nursing sore heads and complaining of lack of sleep.
Pointy Pete was dodging through these rising bodies towards the Captain’s quarters where the candles were lit. Once there, he robbed one of them and use it to set alight a long, wooden torch which was located near the door. It burst aflame instantly and lit up the whole scene with abundant heat and light, almost catching the doorframe and setting the ship on fire. He was careful, though. The accident was averted by a quick movement of his hand as he leapt out of the cabin and ran round the ship, lighting all the lanterns and banishing the eerie atmosphere created by a dark sky and a full moon.
Agatha continued to blow the horn, and the crew slowly assembled around the captain. The only missing members were Timmy the Brick and Woody, who were both still unconscious; even McCluskey had made it, despite having a gaping wound in his forehead.
“What’s going on, captain?” he slurred, barely intelligibly due to the combined effects of alcohol and concussion.
“Jack the Boy has stolen our loot and given it to the ninjas,” he announced to the crowd. “They are in a boat just several hundred yards from here. So I want every man to his position because we’re going to get that booty back!”
The crew let out a collective cheer and busied themselves into battle stations. Agatha went to the look-out; Liu retired to her cabin to conduct her mystical rituals and beg help from the gods; Pointy Pete ran to the galley to set up the cannons, should they be required, and McCluskey jumped behind the wheel and began to steer.
With predictable results. It was true that this was his normal job, but it was also true that he was not normally driving in such a state. The Captain gazed out proudly through the telescope at the worthless Japanese cads he was now pursuing who, realising they had been found, were rowing frantically away from the Merry Martin; yet as he saw them getting further away and leaving his field of vision, he began to twig that something was wrong.
“McCluskey!” he yelled when he turned and saw who was driving. “What are you doing?”
“Driving, cap’n,” replied McCluskey proudly.
Bluebeard could see what was going wrong. McCluskey was steering the ship hard to port when the thieves were making away on the starboard side. In a rage, he ran up to the helm and confronted his idiotic crewmate.
“You’re going the wrong way, man!” he bellowed into his face. “Starboard! We need to be going starboard, you cretin!”
McCluskey turned a deep shade of purple and span the wheel in the opposite direction, finally turning the ship the right way.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” he apologised sheepishly, and with a hint of fear. “It must be my head.”
Bluebeard looked upon his wound with disgust and rudely poked it with his index finger. McCluskey winced and involuntarily stepped backwards.
“He’s in no fit condition to be driving, captain,” came a voice from behind. He spun round to see Marley, the ship’s doctor, surgeon and witch-doctor all rolled into one. “He’s got concussion at least, and maybe something worse.”
Bluebeard turned back to McCluskey and gazed incredulously at the incompetence of his crewmate. “Give it here, lad!” he ordered and yanked the wheel away from McCluskey, taking the job of steering upon himself. The doctor took McCluskey by the arm and led him away, leaving the Captain alone at the prow.
He gazed backward at the ship he commanded. It was a sorry affair. Only half of the sails were hoisted and the crew seemed in complete disarray. One individual even fell from the rigging onto the deck below with an almighty crash, only to be ignored by his fellow shipmates as they dashed about on their business.
Bluebeard sighed. This was, he supposed, what was to be expected from a crew who were still half-drunk and half-asleep.
“Bottle-Neck!” he called up to the look-out. “Where are they?”
“Starboard, captain, and getting away,” replied Agatha.
Resolute, the captain kept the wheel on a course heading hard to starboard, his brow furrowed in frustration. The night was still dark and the lights on his ship were not helping: they merely made the sea darker by comparison, so that it was even harder to see where his ship was sailing. They were now sailing in a pool of bright water, illuminated by their own lanterns
and torches, with pure darkness outside of it, ahead of them- and somewhere in that pure darkness lay their treasure, getting away in the clutches of thieves.
“Straight on, captain! They’re right ahead now!” called Agatha. Bluebeard pulled the wheel back round and put his ship on a straight heading. With the boat now going in the right direction, he cluctched the wheel with his one good hand and span on his axis to see behind him. It was a mixed scene. Marley was now attending to the casualty on the deck who had fallen from the rigging; most of his crew had now found their places, but some were still dashing around.
An explosion came from the port side of the ship and Bluebeard jerked his head round to see a wasted cannon ball flying out to sea. He scowled. Pete, or one of his subordinates, had clearly allowed himself to be overcome by panic and let it off by accident. And as he followed the trail of the cannon ball, his eyes caught upon something else unacceptable: the sails were still not properly unfurled, meaning that he could point the ship in whatever direction he liked but it would not matter for it would not be going anywhere.
“Unfurl the sails, for God’s sake!” he bellowed into the air behind him with such ferocity that it made every member of his crew shudder. A pirate always fears his captain’s rage and, though Bluebeard had not been happy all night, it was obvious his anger was rising. With Jack the Boy gone, his own crew would come to feel the force of his wrath as punishment for their incompetence if they could not successfully hunt down the fugitive.
“Bottle-Neck! Can you still see them?”
“Barely,” replied Agatha. “They’re getting away. About half a mile away now, captain.”
He cursed beneath his breath. Yet as he felt his rage build further, his ship began to move as the sails were finally unfurled. He allowed a smile onto his face and beckoned towards the riggers with an encouraging gesture. The race was now well and truly on, and the Merry Martin was a real contender.
He rushed to the prow to watch excitedly as his colossus of a ship bore down upon its tiny target. The Merry Martin must have been going at least twice the speed of a measly rowing boat, so it was only a matter of (short) time before she caught her prey and recovered her treasure.
Bluebeard was left waiting, though. Seconds became minutes and minutes become more as the traitor and his ninja compatriots failed to come into sight. His excitement faded and he turned on the spot to address his faithful look-out.
“Where the hell are they?” he demanded angrily.
Agatha “Bottle-Neck” Saunders was shaking on the spot. “We’ve lost them,” she admitted sheepishly. “They’ve gone.”
Bluebeard’s rage returned and he