Bloody Jack: Being an Account of the Curious Adventures of Mary 'Jacky' Faber, Ship's Boy

me, but at least it did not rain. Before retiring for the night, I cut a good straight stick from a tree, split the end, inserted the hilt of my shiv, and wrapped it down tight with the thong from my whistle so now I at least have a spear for defense from any beast what might try me. How I will deal with serpents what slither up next to me, I shan't think about.

The night noise started again. In the daytime, there's plenty of noise from the birds I see darting about, and even some pretty loud and raucous cries from the bright blue and green and red parrots I see high in the treetops, but nothing compares to this. After I hear a particularly awful screech from nearby, followed by a nasty gurgle, I reach over and take my whistle and cover all the holes and take a deep breath and let out the highest, shrillest, longest blast of which the whistle is capable, and it rips through the night.

Silence.

Well, that stopped 'em. Perhaps they'd like a tune. So I roll over on me back and gives 'em 'The Rocky Road to Dublin' and it seems to help all of us get through the night.

***

For the signal fire to work, I will need a perfectly calm day, which this one ain't since a stiff onshore breeze is blowing that would take all the smoke and whip it away. No, it's got to be completely still so the column of smoke goes straight up high and stays there.

I gather more wood and this time I also gather some smelly wet seaweed that's tossed up on the shore, for making smoke when I do finally light it off.

I dive into the surf, manage to stay up for five strokes with my legs thrashing, then head back to camp. Breakfast is coconut milk. I can't get into the coconut proper yet, but I can shave the end of it with my shiv till I get down to these things that look like eyes and poke one of them open and then pour the juice inside down my throat.

I figure I'll walk down the beach to the south today to see what's there. I put on my shirt and pants 'cause if I'm taken by cannibals or other rascals, I'll not want to appear immodest. I take my spear in hand and put my whistle in my waistband. The Compleat Beachcomber.

I'm lazing along, poking in this pile of flotsam here, that pile of jetsam there, not finding much 'cept some dead fish that even I can't eat and some amazingly disgusting jellyfish when I come upon a real find. It's a large clamshell, about a foot across and three inches deep in the middle and it's good and thick. A cook pot, at last.

There's a lot of the same kind of shells at this spot and I pick up a couple of smaller ones. Spoons and cups.

Home for lunch.

***

A bunch of oysters and clams goes in the shell first, then I poke a hole in the eye of a coconut and pour in the juice. Then some pigweed and then on the fire in not too hot a place so the shell don't crack. I gather some smooth small rocks and wash them off and put them in the hottest part of the fire. When they get good and hot, I use a couple of palm frond stems as tongs to pick them and drop them in the pot to help things along. I got plenty of time to wait for it to cook.

Several hours later I'm lying back, patting my belly and thinking as how this was much more to my liking. Even the greens was good. I'm half dozing, looking up at the treetops, when I notice that they ain't moving. Not even a little bit. The wind has died and there's at least six hours of light left. Maybe it's time.

Down at the beach, the sea is calm as glass, with scarcely a ripple on its surface. The tide is down about halfway. I choose a spot just below the high tidemark and down the beach somewhat—I don't want someone to find traces of the fire and then find me and my camp right off. There I put an armful of the dry tinder I had tucked under the Hope. Next, bigger dry wood and then bigger yet till I have the whole rack laid out. One final check of the wind and I light it with the lens.

While it is catching, I drag the poor Hope down to the shore and wet it down completely, then drag it back, much heavier now, to the edge of the fire. A column of white smoke is heading straight up.

I give it a while longer and then throw on more wood and then more, till the fire is forming some good coals. Then more, and this time the wood ain't dry at all and the smoke is darker now.

When things are really roaring, I toss on a bunch of the wet seaweed and it hisses and the smoke turns thick and black. Then I set the Hope up on its point next to the fire, and I let the black smoke get well up in the sky.

I let the Hope fall down over the fire, blocking the smoke, and I slowly count to ten before lifting it back up. The kite smokes a bit, but the wet fabric don't burn. I repeat the action three more times, leaving three puffs of smoke in the air. Then I take the kite back to the water and douse it again.

Looking up now, there's the first column of smoke, which is beginning to thin out and drift away, then the three puffs, then the next column building up again. It's got to be at least three hundred feet up there. I'll wait a few minutes and do it again.

I'm hoping Davy will remember the Brotherhood's secret number when he sees this. Tink'll probably still be in sick bay. Willy, well, forget it. And I know Jaimy'll be too deep in his grief over the death of his darlin' girl to notice anything.

He'd better be.

I go through the whole thing again and then put the glass back together to look seaward to where I think the island is.

Nothing.

I'll take a swim and then try again.

Again the puffs go up and again nothing. The tide comes in and puts the fire out. Tomorrow is another day. I pick up my things and head back to the kip.

There's a tall and wide tree that sits on the edge of my clearing, with its branches hanging out over the lagoon. Its trunk and branches are smooth and pink and have patches on them like peeling skin and there ain't many little branches and the leaves are mainly on the top canopy so it's real easy to climb. The branches are so wide and level that I can walk right along them, no hands.

There's a place right up top that looks out over the sea, where four branches come together, and so I get some rope and weave it back and forth, round and round the four branches, and make myself a little platform. I take another long length of rope and run it from there down to the ground where I pull it taut and tie it around a stout root that curls up from out of the ground. So I've got myself a foretop, like, and I can run up and down that rope just like it was a shroud on the ship. Keep myself ready for sea. I shall call it The Foretop.

I keep watch the rest of the afternoon and evening.

Nothing.

Dinner, and so to bed.

Chapter 40

It rained again last night, so all hope of another signal fire is gone for several days, at least. If I had not been so lazy I would have collected more wood and put it under the Hope, but no, I didn't. Conduct Unbecoming a Midshipman in His Majesty's Navy. I put myself on report.

I deny myself breakfast as punishment for my dereliction of duty and go right down to the beach to gather another stack of wood. I will regretfully put the Hope on top again tonight. I regret it 'cause I got drenched last night and didn't like it much. Even when it's as warm as this, sleeping wet ain't fun, and I really want to use the Hope as shelter again soon.

Oh, well, as Liam says, offer it up. I'll stretch out in the sun later just like my turtles and catch up on ...

There.