The Pirate's Revenge by Kelly Gardiner Page A

on the wind. The boys greeted us with a cheer, and we set sail in the dusk. I was still too weak to help much, so I sat on the hatch and threw my head back to watch as the headsail filled and the mainsail was hauled and made fast. The Mermaid glowed in the yellowing sunset, her canvas tight and rounded, her ropes quivering as the breeze quickened.
    After so long on shore, I laughed to feel the wind on my skin and the rhythm of the sea. A sudden wind puckered the water and rocked the ship, dragging on the canvas, then passed on to fade out somewhere towards Africa. My body moved with the swell, all my muscles and bones rolling with the waves, as if I were part of the ship and all the world’s oceans.
    We headed out to sea to skirt the coast. There was no need for me to set a course. The boys all knew where they were, and where we were headed: toDwejra to unload another cargo for Hussein, then on to Santa Lucia to unload me.
    In my little cabin, everything was just as I’d left it. I hung my sword on its hook, and sat down to write the missing days into the logbook. Ever since we’d been aboard, I’d marked our position, every noon and every night, in the captain’s log. What a story it could tell. In the logbook, you were supposed to note down sightings of ships and coasts, weather conditions, wind direction, quartermaster’s store records. But every night, I’d wanted to scribble down all the marvellous things I’d seen; all the strange things we’d done, the boys and I; and how it felt to be out here, day after day, with the sea birds and the porpoises, with the ship as our home.
    Other navigators on other ships wrote about discovering new worlds or exploring unknown coastlines. I wanted to write about the lines of stubby trees beneath the cliffs, the gullies that snaked up onto the plateau, and cliffs of crumbly limestone, pockmarked with caves.
    I wanted to write how I’d watched our wake fade behind us, bubbling and creamy as fresh milk or clouds in a summer sky. Or how the sea spray had flung itself into our faces like a handful of pearls, then vanished as if it were smoke. The water was so different every day: a new colour, a new depth and mood. One morning there’d be a nasty black chop, then later a deep swell topped with sudden green peaks, and the wind would scythe the top off every wave. The next day you’d see veins and spatters of white across bright blue.
    Way out to sea, the water rippled and buckled under its skin, and in the afternoon glare it was glazed in sheets of silver. Close to shore, it coiled around the rocks, spat and gurgled through the rock-pools. In the evening there’d be layers of cloud, oyster grey, then pale as a gull’s wing, building up a storm; the Mermaid would fly downwind, and we’d sing on deck as we worked, the boys laughing aloud. I wished I could write it all down.
    Instead, every evening, I sat down at the chart table and noted our position and the wind direction and any ships we’d seen and whether our stores were running low. That night was no different. I quizzed the boys on their route to pick up this last cargo from Sicily, and filled in the missing entries, day by day, feeling the pull of the tight scar on my arm. I noted our destination for tomorrow, and the day after.
    I’m going home! I wanted to scribble it right across the page. Instead I wrote, in my best lettering: Santa Lucia. Course SSW from Dwejra.
    Jem knocked gently at the door. ‘How goes it, Cyg? How’s the arm?’
    â€˜Tired, but well.’ I would miss him so much. I knew I would miss them all.
    He stood awkwardly, head bowed beneath the low ceiling. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked.
    â€˜It’s just …’ His voice was hushed. ‘I want to send a letter.’
    â€˜Shall I write it down for you?’
    â€˜It’d be much appreciated.’ He cleared his