Steel

3 DISENGAGE

Her mother was very into the idea of togetherness. “Jill, you’re going to go away to college in a couple of years. Who knows what’ll happen after that? This may be our last big family trip together and I want us to spend as much time together as we can.”

No pressure or anything.

The day after the beach, Mom planned a boat tour.

“What kind of boat?” Tom kept asking as Mom herded them all into the rental car.

“Will it have sails?” Mandy said.

“Or cannons?” Tom asked.

“No cannons,” their mother said. “It’s just a tour boat; it goes up and down the coast and that’s it.”

Jill’s silence was a contrast to the laughing and joking of the others. She wasn’t encouraged when they arrived at the dock and a banner hanging on the side of the office announced: PARTY CRUISES. The sign showed lots of cartoon pictures of parrots with eye patches holding margaritas in clawed feet. Scratchy reggae music played through speakers. Now Jill was going to be trapped on a boat full of people having more fun than she was.

She hung back and kept her hands in the pockets of her clamdiggers, fingers brushing the rusted piece of rapier she’d brought with her. Last night, she’d put it on the windowsill next to her bed. She didn’t want to leave it alone, as if it might start speaking, whispering cryptic and important secrets, and she had to be there to hear it. Maybe it would be a good luck charm.

The tour company did, in fact, have sailing ships with cannons—fake ships that ran on motors, with fake masts and sails and plastic cannons. The boat for their tour was more mundane, thirty or forty feet long with a cabin toward the front, a clean white hull, a big motor, and plastic cushions on the seats around the outside. Very modern. The oily smell of diesel overcame the salt smell of the ocean.

A dozen people had signed up for the tour, and a dockhand guided them onto the back of the boat—and he yelled at Tom and Mandy to stop running. Jill found a place to sit toward the back and looked over the water through her sunglasses.

Dad picked a place next to her on the boat. The first day on the island he’d forgotten to use sunscreen and had a sunburn that was already peeling across his nose and cheeks. That didn’t keep him from smiling. Today, he had on a sheen of sunscreen and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that shaded his whole face. He also wore a plaid cotton shirt and looked every bit the tourist.

“This ought to be fun,” he said, striking up a conversation.

“Yeah,” Jill said, noncommittal, looking out at the water.

“Mom says you’re still upset about the tournament.” He’d just glanced at her mother, who must have put him up to this. Jill could almost hear her saying, You try talking to her….

Jill shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it. It was so close.”

“There’ll be other tournaments.”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

“Ah. Your mom and I—I hope you’ve never felt like we’ve pushed you, or put too much pressure on you.”

“No,” Jill said, shaking her head. “No, this is all me. It’s just—I’m disappointed, and everyone else must be disappointed. I was so close.”

“I guess if I said, ‘Winning isn’t everything,’ you’d give me one of those looks, wouldn’t you?” he said.

And she gave him one of those looks, but tried to turn it into a smile. She probably just ended up looking confused.

“Well,” he said. “Try to forget about it for a little while, at least. Try to enjoy yourself.”

Mandy and Tom were now leaning over the side, trying to reach into the water, and Mom was pulling them back to their seats. Jill was suddenly jealous of them.

After twenty more minutes of waiting for people to settle, the boat motored away from the dock, chugging and trailing wisps of black smoke, which seemed ironic, considering they were supposed to be enjoying the pristine scenery. Tom and Mandy may actually have been right—sails and wind seemed more suited to boating in a tropical paradise.

Once on the water, the waves hardly rocked them. They traveled smoothly while the tour guide told them stories.

The guide was a beach bum–looking guy, skin tanned like leather, white hair rough and windblown, stubble for a beard. He looked ancient but seemed younger in the quickness of his movements and the brightness in his voice. Sitting near the cabin, the PA microphone in one hand, he gestured widely, pointing vaguely toward the island or out to sea as he talked about the old weathered forts overlooking the harbor, naval battles between the British and Spanish, and what pirates did to capture merchant ships. More pirate stories. Legends such as Blackbeard had found a haven here. They lived reckless, lawless lives. The words condemned the pirate culture, but the guide had a gleam in his eye.

“So is there buried treasure on the island?” Tom asked.

“Contrary to all the stories, pirates didn’t bury their treasure, lad,” the guide said kindly. Just like Jill had told him. “Most of them spent it all before they’d ever have a chance to bury it. They’d come to shore and go straight to the tavern. Not much has changed, eh?” A few of the passengers chuckled.

Tom looked disappointed, and the guide continued. “Sometimes people find gold doubloons or other things washed up on the beach. A lot of ships wrecked between here and Florida. That’s where the real treasure is.”

Jill touched the rapier point in her pocket, still feeling like she’d stolen something precious.

“Now, a lot of people ask me, why are pirates so fascinating? They were vicious criminals, weren’t they? They robbed and murdered, didn’t they? The modern pirates out in Somalia sure aren’t heroes. So why do we make these pirates into heroes? I say it’s because they were free in a time when not many people were. Did you know pirate ships were some of the first democracies? Crews voted on their captains. A good captain had to listen to his crew, and the ship was only as good as the crew. A good crew was a family. There’s something admirable in that.”

It all seemed unreal to Jill, remembering the shore that was crowded with hotels and the harbor that was filled with sleek white sailboats and massive cruise ships.

“Are there any ghosts on the island?” Mandy said.

The guide launched into more stories about pirate ghosts and ghostly cannons firing from Fort Charlotte at midnight.

Jill sat close to the edge, her arm over the side, turning her face to the wind and letting the sea spray touch her. The coast continued to look like a postcard—white sand, palm trees, and amazing blue water. She gave up on thinking about her life and let her mind wander. There was something about the way the sunlight played on the water. She could even ignore her siblings.

Once they’d passed a certain point, leaving the sheltered part of the coast, the sea became rougher. Jill found herself holding on to the side with both hands as the ship rose and fell, rocking and slapping against the waves, which seemed larger than they had at the start of the cruise. A few people cried out as they lost their balance, then laughed it off. Tom and Mandy seemed to think it was huge fun. The wind blew Jill’s hair into her face; she brushed it away.

They were supposed to be having lunch at noon. The crew had already pulled out a box full of sandwiches and a cooler that they said was full of rum punch. Jill didn’t bother asking her mother if she could have any. But they paused; white clouds that had gathered picturesquely on the horizon all morning were darkening. Gray streaks from cloud to ocean showed rain. They’d traveled farther out to sea—the island was a rough smudge behind them, a crowd of foliage, no details visible. The laughter turned nervous—but they couldn’t be heading into a storm, because a tour boat would never do that. Right?

Now this was exciting.

“Everyone take a seat,” the guide said. “We’ll be through this in a moment. And if you feel like heaving ho, do it over the side, okay?”

Most of passengers chuckled, but a few of them sat quickly on cushions around the sides, just in case.

“Jill? Jill, where are you?” Jill’s mother called from the other side of the cabin. Mom was herding the kids; Jill recognized the tone of voice. She stood and turned toward the front of the boat to answer.

A large wave surged under them then, sending the boat rocking steeply. Jill, the world-class athlete who’d never yet lost her balance in a fencing bout, fell. Stumbling back, she hit the side of the boat and went over. Grabbing uselessly for the edge, she rolled into the ocean. Her father shouted, scrambling to his feet. She saw his arms reaching for her as she went under.

From dry land, the ocean looked so calm, peaceful. Serene blue waters. All that great scenery the adults talked about. From underwater, it was chaos. Waves pitched her, her sunglasses were torn away, the water was cold, shocking after the tropical air. She couldn’t catch her breath—swallowed water instead. Flailing, she searched for up, groped for the surface—couldn’t find it. Her lungs were tightening. It had been sunny a moment ago—where was the sun?

Someone grabbed her. Hands twisted into her clothing and pulled her into the air. She clutched at her rescuers, gasped for air, heaving deep breaths that tasted of brine, slimy and salty. But she was out of the water. She was safe. She wasn’t going to die.

She landed hard on an unsteady wooden surface. The hands let her go, and she grabbed for some kind of hold to steady herself against the rocking of the waves.

Scrubbing water from her face, she opened her eyes and looked.

She expected to see the tour boat. But this boat was too small, almost a rowboat, with two sets of oars. Bottom and sides of plain wood, not polished fiberglass. No motor grumbled. And what should have been a clear stretch of ocean was filled with debris—broken wood, barrels bobbing along the waves, tangles of rope and canvas floating on the water. Something had been smashed to pieces here. A faint scent of burning touched the air.

Then there were the people.

Inside the rowboat, five men surrounded her, one bald, the others with long, greasy hair tied back. The ones without full beards still looked like they hadn’t shaved in days. A couple had gold rings in their ears. One had a ring in his nose, through the middle. They wore rough shirts and loose trousers, and went barefoot.

They’d started rowing the little boat to a ship a few hundred feet away. A long, two-masted sailing ship, sails furled, riding the waves, up and down.

Jill had seen some of the other party boats that advertised as pirate ships, with their tall masts, rippling canvas sails, and skull-and-crossbones flags. This must have been one of those, with a particularly enthusiastic crew. Maybe it was a theme party with costumes. She’d fallen out of the tour boat, and these guys came along and picked her up. Maybe they’d let her have some of the rum punch. But that didn’t explain the wreckage in the water. She didn’t think she’d been in the water that long. Maybe a minute. On the other hand, maybe it had been longer—she felt like she had almost drowned. Could she have drifted that far from the tour boat in that time?

When she leaned on the edge of the rowboat to look for the tour boat her family was on, she couldn’t see anything. No other vessel was in sight. The shore of the island was even farther away—a gray haze, that was all. Maybe the tour boat was behind the pirate party ship. The sky over them was scattered with clouds, thin, dissipating in a brisk wind, as if the threatening storm had ended.

The men on the rowboat weren’t smiling, and didn’t look like they’d come from any party.

Jill stayed alone in the middle of the boat, gripping the sides, while four of the men rowed. The fifth, the bald one, glared at her but didn’t say a word. None of them even looked at her, just a piece of flotsam they’d picked out of the water.

“What’s happening?” she asked, her voice shaking. She tried to sound braver. “Who are you guys?”

They didn’t answer.

The boat was coming alongside the larger vessel, with its wide, sloping hull, two tall masts, and collection of triangular sails. Maybe she could ask someone there what this was all about, and they could take her back to the island.

The bald man shouted orders, a few monosyllabic calls that Jill didn’t understand, and ropes came down from the deck of the ship. She expected to see some kind of ladder, some easy way for them to climb on board—then there’d be a radio or something the captain could use to call the tour bout.

The men in the rowboat got to work tying ropes to cleats. The ropes looped over struts attached perpendicularly to the masts. Men on deck started pulling, ropes started creaking, and the rowboat lifted out of the water.

The rest of the men were climbing up the hull of the larger ship as lengths of rope were passed down to them. Instead of a ladder there were thin wooden slats nailed into the hull to use as toe holds. Not very helpful, Jill thought.

The bald man handed the end of a rope to her. “Climb,” he ordered.

Was he kidding? She didn’t know if she could, but she thought she’d better try. She watched the others expertly pull themselves up, hand over hand, using their feet to balance against the hull. Under other circumstances—like if this really was a party boat and she was supposed to be here—she might have had fun with it. But everything about the situation was wrong. Nobody checked to see if she was okay, and nobody was smiling.

She gripped the rope and started climbing.

The climb took forever, it seemed. She was shaking from the shock of falling in the water, and her muscles felt like rubber—too soft, too stretchy, like they did after a full day of fencing. And she didn’t know what was going to happen when she reached the deck of the ship. But she climbed, slowly, one step at a time, remembering to breathe.

The bald man rode in the rowboat as it was hauled up the side.

Finally, she reached the side—made of plain, weathered wood, like the rowboat. She hooked her arms over it, managed to swing one leg up, then rolled onto the new ship. She sprawled out on the deck.

The boards under her smelled like mildew, rotten with salt and damp that was never going to go away. There were cannons on wheels lined up along the side and lashed into place. The ship creaked—wood bending, ropes twisting, waves lapping against the hull. She heard this because all else was silent. The deck was filled with people, all shapes, sizes, colors. All men. And all of them looked angry. Or hungry. They were all staring at her. They’d left a space open around her, but in a second they could close that space, they could close in on her. When they pressed forward, she could feel their steps under her hands, where she crouched on the deck. She stood clumsily.

“Guess the salvage wasn’t a waste after all,” one of them said.

“Not at all, we found ourselves a nice bit of cargo,” said the bald man, and the rest laughed. They leered with rotten and gap-toothed grins.

“She’s a bit skinny, in’t she?” This one poked at her, pinching the flesh of her forearm. She slapped at his hand and lurched away, but another set of hands were there, grabbing at her. This only made them laugh more.

This wasn’t a party boat. This was something else.

Whoever these people were, whatever was happening, they held their bodies like predators ready to strike, and their gazes showed wicked, murderous desire. She felt light-headed.

Thinking she’d be better off jumping right back into the water, she glanced behind her. A couple of the men had moved along the side, blocking her escape that way. So she was stuck. Trapped. Screwed.

Except that she recognized something else in the situation: Several of the men carried swords with long, slender blades. Rapiers. Besides the cannons on deck she didn’t see any more serious weapons. Nothing like handguns. Only long knives. She understood rapiers. Jill could make a feint. Show them she wasn’t easy pickings. It might even work.

Swinging back, she made toward the side, as if she planned to shove past the men and dive over in a spectacular and stupid bid to escape. A shout went up, and as she hoped, the men behind her reached out, grabbing at her to hold her back and keep her from jumping. She’d noted which one of them had a rapier—he kept it down, out of the way so as not to impale anyone while they hauled her from the side. Having misdirected them, she dug her shoulder into this one’s chest, ripping herself from the others’ grips in her sudden change of direction. With both hands, she grabbed the rapier’s solid steel guard and yanked. The yelling around her was louder than the ocean’s waves.

She took hold of the rapier and swung it point out, sweeping an arc around her. The shouts turned to surprise and panic, and a space cleared around her. Holding the sword level, point out, her grip on the handle steady, she stared at her enemies over the edge of the blade. Now she could handle herself. Now she felt a little bit safe and in control.

The men backed away, keeping a good distance around her, as if not sure what to make of her. Some were still chuckling, like this was a game. Several of them had raised their own swords, but made no move toward her. Maybe waiting to see what their bedraggled refugee would do next.

Then things got even stranger.

Across the deck came a shout and the sound of heavy footsteps, hollow on the wood. The men looked suddenly alert—maybe even nervous, and the crowd parted.

The figure who approached, who the rest of the mob respectfully made way for, wasn’t tall and didn’t seem powerful like most of the men. She was a woman, sturdy, wearing a long coat belted around her waist, her curly cinnamon hair left loose over her shoulders. She wore a black three-cornered hat and polished boots. Her scowl was hard, angry.

“What have you louts fished up then, eh?” the woman said. When she saw Jill, she frowned, glancing at the bald man from the rowboat. “You found her in the wreckage?”

“Yessir.”

Back to Jill now, she said, “What happened, then? How’d you survive the Newark’s sinking? Or maybe you were on Heart’s Revenge?”

Jill couldn’t open her mouth to speak, but she shook her head, wondering when she was going to wake up, wondering if she was still underwater, hallucinating or unconscious. So much for feeling safe.

“Speak up, then,” said the woman—she must have been the captain here. “Who are you and where’d you come from? Say something, wench, or I’ll throw you to these bloody dogs.”

At that, the men laughed and growled, like the dogs she’d called them. Jill swept the rapier again, trying to keep that clear space around her. Trying to give herself space to think.

The woman’s scowl turned into a half smile and she said, “You think you can use that, then?”

The sword was much heavier than Jill’s épée at home. Her arm trembled with the weight of it, and her breaths came in gasps. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to fight. But she would fight. She nodded. “Yes.”

“Very good. Henry!” the captain called. “You feel like a bit of a game?”

“I do at that, sir.” A young man stepped forward, and Jill’s heart jumped a little. He was cute. Athletic, skin the color of a rich brown wood, short black hair, and a wry smile. Like all the rest, he wore a loose white shirt, loose pants, and went barefoot. And he held a rapier.

He swung the weapon through a few circles like it didn’t weigh anything. The crowd, including the captain, pressed back, leaving a wide circle of open deck for them to fight in.

A duel. A freaking duel. She’d lost her last bout—why did she think she had a chance now? She almost dropped the rapier and begged them to have mercy, to not hurt her. But this Henry didn’t stop smiling. He even looked like he was laughing at her. That goaded her. The burning, competitive anger that rose up in her was the only familiar thing about the situation.

Henry stood, right foot pointed forward, arm lowered so the rapier’s point rested on the deck, and waited for her.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. Easier said than done when she could feel the floor shifting under her, rocking back and forth unpredictably with the movement of the waves. She reminded herself of her pre-bout mantra: stay calm, keep breathing, don’t panic, don’t let her opponent fluster her. But she didn’t know how she could be more flustered. Which made it all the more important that she keep breathing and stay calm.

She stood en garde, right foot forward, left foot back, knees bent. Warily, she saluted him with the rapier she’d stolen and settled her arm into position.

Still seeming amused, Henry saluted her back, flourishing with his off hand and bowing his head besides. Then he stood ready. And why should he be any good, this scruffy-looking kid on a weird sailing ship? No reason she shouldn’t be able to take him.

The edge of her rapier gleamed, sharp and dangerous. A real blade, meant for causing harm. For all her bluster, she had never held a sharpened rapier before. She almost stopped the fight right there, but the way the men around her looked at her hadn’t changed. They were as dangerous as a real rapier; she had to defend herself. And she would.

He made the first move, reaching out with his blade to tap the end of hers. Nerves and panic made her overreact; she struck his weapon back with a hard beat and jumped back, retreating sloppily. The crowd laughed, and she blushed. That was an amateur move and they all knew it. The captain crossed her arms and frowned.

Before she’d completely settled back into her stance, he struck again, another lazy hit against her blade. But she was ready for it this time and disengaged—dropped her sword slightly so that when he expected to hit it, it wasn’t there—and immediately lunged. She caught him off guard that time, and he swung his sword up in a hasty parry and stumbled back. His wide eyes showed surprise. He’d thought he was toying with her. Playing games with a weak opponent. Thought maybe that she was just a girl and no good at this.

Realizing she couldn’t rest for a moment in this fight—she had to keep him constantly off guard—she pressed. Lunged again, was blocked again, but moved to attack on a different line.

He crossed to his left, moving in a circle around her, startling her. She shifted to keep up, to keep him in front of her. They were fighting in a circle, not on a strip, like in fencing competition. The change disoriented her. Just keep him in front of you.

They exchanged more passes, steel slapping against steel. He drew her thrusts and parried them, that smile still on his face. He was guiding the fight, not her. She tried not to let it make her angry. He never got past her defenses; all her parries were strong, even though her arm burned, and every time their swords met a tingling numbness traveled through her muscles. Her guard fell lower and lower. In a few moments, she wouldn’t be able to hold up the sword at all.

When he struck again, she parried like before, but the move brought his blade down and the tip snagged on her pants, just above the knee. The fabric sliced through with a quick ripping sound. Everyone heard it, and Henry jumped back, startled.

She realized then that all of his blows had been at her arms and legs. Because anything else, any stab to her body with a real rapier, would kill her. He wasn’t trying to kill her. Her stomach felt sick and roiling at the thought that a slip—any stab that got past her defenses—would really kill her. And she’d been trying to kill him, because she hadn’t thought of anything but scoring the touch.

A four-inch slice cut through her pants, a gaping oval exposing skin. No blood; he hadn’t broken skin. Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. She let her arm drop like a weight, rapier dangling from her hand. Henry looked at her, challenging, gripping his rapier hard like he was ready to go on. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Knock off there, both of you,” the captain called. They’d already halted the duel, but her order kept them from rushing into another attack—or from expecting an attack from the other. Henry relaxed, lowering his weapon and looking at his captain.

Jill was still trying to slow her breathing, which came in gasps. Her heart was racing. She would have died, a wrong thrust and she would have died…. And she had been so worried and frustrated about simply losing.

The captain’s voice was kind when she spoke to Jill this time. “You know the forms well enough and stand pretty with a sword, but you’ve never fought for blood, have you, lass?”

Jill could only shake her head—no, she’d never fought for blood. Not real blood. Only ranks, medals, and maybe a college scholarship. She bowed her head, embarrassed, when tears fell. She wiped them away quickly. Her still-wet hair stuck to her cheeks. Salt water crusted her clothing. However much she wanted to sit down, pass out—or drop the rapier, which she wouldn’t have been able to raise again even if Henry came at her in another attack—she remained standing before the captain, as straight as she could, which wasn’t very at the moment.

“What’s your name, lass?”

“Jill. Jill Archer,” she said, her voice scratching. She only just noticed that she was thirsty.

“And, Jill, how do you come to be adrift in the wide sea so far from home?”

The tears almost broke then, and she took a moment to answer. “I don’t know.”