Читать книгу The Little Jane Silver 2-Book Bundle - Adira Rotstein - Страница 9

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 rope to make certain it would stay, she grabbed hold and began to descend. By the time she splashed down, the stranger was already making his way up a ladder by the pier.

Little Jane swam with ease. Thanks to her father’s insistence on teaching her how to swim, Little Jane had the advantage when it came to water reconnaissance. It was only the wooden ladder at the pier that gave her any trouble, as it had been smoothed to extreme slipperiness by seaweed and wet moss, the result of being underwater with the tides.

By the time she made it up the ladder to the dock, the man had disappeared. She was about to turn back when, up ahead, barely visible in the lamplight, she saw the large silhouette again. Little Jane followed, with half an eye to the pavement lest she be betrayed by a stray cobblestone.

She watched as the man ducked into a doorway and changed his soggy breeches. Dripping and shivering in the evening air, Little Jane followed at a safe distance. Though the streetlights were few, and the evening dark, the man was not hard to follow. She simply listened for the sound of his wet feet slapping the stone ground.

Little Jane followed him to an ancient sailors’ pub not far from the pier. A wooden sign above the door in the crude shape of a shark, its features long worn away by the elements, creaked upon rusty metal hinges in the breeze.

The doorway beneath was ringed by a massive pair of shark’s jaws, glowing ghostly white in the moonlight. Little Jane hugged herself nervously as she watched the stranger step through the skeletal mouth and descend into the dim light of the subterranean pub.

Beside the entrance was a small window, fashioned out of an old ship’s porthole. Peering in through the grimy glass above the patrons’ heads, Little Jane got a good view of the stranger for the first time.

Except it wasn’t a stranger. It was Ned Ronk!

Little Jane sprung up with a start, nearly striking her face against the glass, and fled. The stone street stung the soles of her feet, but she didn’t notice. All that mattered was to put as much distance between her and that horrid clasp-knife as quickly as possible.

By the time she returned to the Pieces — this time by the regular method of walking up the gangplank — Little Jane was in no mood for dancing.