Making Waves by Annie Dalton

see in cartoons.
    We were halfway to Port Royal when we heard an appalling ruckus floating across the water. Pistols firing, bells ringing, drunken voices singing and squabbling in every language under the sun, drums beating, whistles blowing. I thought some mad carnival was going on, but Brice said this was normal for Port Royal. With a flash of fear I remembered that Lola had called it the “wickedest city on Earth”.
    The dock was unbelievably crowded. The moment we got off the boat there was this stampede. Rough humans of both sexes rushed at us, yelling threateningly in our faces, poking and prodding at us, mostly trying to sell us stuff we didn’t want.
    This was a city where pirates basically ruled. Its lanes and alleyways swarmed with buccaneers of all colours and nationalities. It even smelled wicked. The streets literally stank like they’d been marinated in Jamaican rum! Just about every other building was a pirate tavern, a gambling den, or a “punch-house”. Lola looked disturbed when she saw the punch-house girls with their plunging bodices and crudely made-up faces.
    In a street behind the Turtle Market, we passed a gun shop, where pistols were laid out on black velvet like a lady’s jewels. A drunken pirate suddenly pushed his face into mine, making kissing noises. He was quite old and his leathery face was seamed with scars.
    Lola flew between us and gave him a massive thump in the chest.
    “G’way, you boldface devil, you!” she said fiercely. “You tink dis nice girl business wid you! Tcha!”
    He slunk away mumbling apologies. “Thanks, Lola,” I said gratefully.
    Lola just gave me one of her looks. Like, “You think I want to be your babysitter?”
    “Do try to look as if you know where you’re going, cousin,” Brice sighed.
    On the other side of the street, a pirate dressed in silks and velvets, was stopping passers-by at gunpoint, challenging them to a drinking contest from a barrel of Jamaican rum!
    I scurried after Lola and Brice. “And do we? Know where we’re going?” I asked nervously.
    Brice said we were looking for a tavern called Diego’s Whiskers. Naturally, I thought he was kidding. But Brice assured me the name was for real; Diego had been a notorious Spanish pirate who finally got blown to pieces by English buccaneers.
    “What was so special about Diego’s whiskers?” I asked. “Did they glow in the dark or something?”
    Brice grinned. “English seamen are always boasting about singeing their enemies’ facial hair,” he said. “It’s the ultimate insult!”
    He seemed more like the old Brice now we’d left the plantation. He seemed thrilled with himself, to be honest: setting off to do a nefarious deal with a mysterious lady, a bloodstained treasure map in his pocket, and an adoring slave-girl by his side.
    However, I was getting twitchy. I reckoned it would be dark in about five minutes max. We’re talking Jamaican darkness, right? Five short minutes before the streets of dilapidated high-rise tenements turned into inky black canyons. This thought seemed to occur to my friends at approximately the same moment. No one actually mentioned lurking robbers or cutthroats but everyone suddenly picked up the pace.
    Brice led us down an extremely evil-smelling alley, running parallel to the waterfront. I could hear the hollow sloshing of waves against wooden piers and the rhythmic creaking of ships’ timbers.
    We hurried along, scattering pigs and chickens in our haste to get under a roof before nightfall. Brice peered at an inn sign in the gathering dusk. It was peppered with bullet holes and totally impossible to read, but he strode through the door of the tavern without a second’s hesitation. Amnesia or no amnesia, Brice’s bad-boy radar was functioning as well as ever!
    He gave a swift glance around the crowded bar, nodded at the landlord and, without breaking stride, ducked through a door marked PRIVATE.
    Lola and I both beetled after him, not wanting to be