日记2

April 17th, 1920

The first cannon blast woke me, though I’m not sure I’d truly slept.

I’d curled up in the corner of the map room, revolver still clutched in my hand, when the world erupted. It wasn’t the pirates—oh no, it was us. The Colonel had given the order while I was dozing, his voice low and graveled as he leaned over the charts. “We wait for the fog to thin, then hit the smallest ship first. Take them by surprise.” I thought he was mad. The Perseverance’s cannons? The ones that sputtered like old men clearing their throats? But when the first shot screamed across the water and hit the nearest pirate brigantine square in the hull, I swear I felt the deck shake with it.

Chaos. That’s the only word for it.

The pirates roared back, cannonballs whistling overhead, splintering wood and sending splinters flying. I scrambled up to the deck, tripping over a coil of rope, and saw Mr. Grimes grinning as he rammed a charge into the cannon. “Told you they still work, lad!” he shouted, before the next blast deafened me. The fog was lifting, just enough to see the Good Monkey Fleet panicking—their smallest ship was listing, smoke curling from its side, and the others were veering off, trying to regroup.

“Now!” the Colonel barked.

We’d loaded crates of gunpowder onto the lifeboats at dusk, the crew working silent and fast. Three boats slipped into the water, oars muffled by rags, while our cannons kept firing to drown out the sound. I was in the first boat, rowing alongside young Tommy—he’d stopped crying, his face set, arms moving in rhythm with the others. “Keep low,” the Colonel hissed from the stern, and we ducked as a pirate bullet zinged over our heads.

We hit their middle ship first.

Tommy and I clambered up the rope ladder, my hands raw and burning, while the crew tossed the powder crates onto their deck. A pirate lunged at me with a cutlass, but I fumbled the revolver and it went off—bang—and he stumbled back, clutching his shoulder. I didn’t stop to think. I just ran, following the others, until we lit the fuses and dove back into the boat.

The explosion hit as we rowed away. Fireballed into the sky, red and gold, and the shockwave rocked our little boat like a toy. I looked back and saw the pirate ship breaking apart, timbers flying, and for a second, I felt sick. Then Mr. Grimes clapped me on the back, hard enough to make me cough. “That’s how you do it!” he roared, and the crew cheered.

We hit another ship before they could chase us. By then, the pirates were firing blindly, their formation shattered. The Colonel yelled for us to make for the Perseverance, and we scrambled back aboard, our clothes soaked and our hands trembling—not from fear this time, but from something else. Adrenaline, maybe.

We didn’t look back.

The Perseverance groaned as we sailed full tilt, the crew patching holes and bailing water, but we didn’t slow down. The sun rose pink and hazy, and by noon, the pirate ships were just smudges on the horizon. Tommy laughed when he saw them vanish, a high, shaky sound, and even the Colonel cracked a smile, though he tried to hide it behind his spyglass.

Now it’s midnight again, and I’m writing this in the ship’s galley, the smell of salt and singed wood still clinging to my clothes. We’ve made it to荷属圭亚那 (Dutch Guiana)—the lights of Paramaribo harbor glimmer ahead, steady and warm. The crew’s collapsed on the deck, snoring, and the Colonel’s finally sitting, his boots propped up on a barrel, nursing a mug of rum.

He caught me staring earlier. “Well done, Mark,” he said, and I nearly dropped my pen. “Not bad for a secretary who fumbles ropes.”

I still have the revolver. It’s on the table beside me, cold as ever, but lighter somehow.

I’ll post this letter in the morning. Tell Mother I’m safe. Tell her I love her. A hundred times, if I have to.

The galley lantern glows steady. No more waiting.

We’re alive.

That’s enough, for now.