-1The Life and Times of Red Handed Jill
Honestly, none of the characters are mine, save Purdue and others that are quite obviously not the work of Barrie.
"Miss Darling," Captain Purdue said warningly, feet careful on the deck, slick with spirits and oil and anything, really, Wendy had been able to get her hands onto that would soak the wood. "Miss Darling, just put that lamp down, my dear, and we can put this little happening behind us."
He had no weaponry on him, and neither did she, save for the lantern. The crew looked on.
Wendy's slipper-clad feet moved backwards, matching each of Purdue's steps with one of her own retreating ones. Quickly, her backside made contact with the rail.
"Miss Darling?"
"You don't even see it, do you? How much you have changed?" she asked quietly, and the Captain did not answer.
"I could ask the same of you."
The words were spoken carefully, and he meant them exactly as they were delivered. Fiery resolve now branding her every move, Wendy grabbed hold of the rigging without looking backwards. With one last look at the Captain, she turned and jumped, still holding the lantern.
A splash was heard, and the men relaxed. At least, in her moment of mental instability, she had not set fire to the ship as the girl had threatened.
A few of the men, including Purdue, started to move towards the side of the ship to peer into the murky water below. It would do little good, for they knew the English girl could not swim. Something flashed past them and landed on the deck with a hollow clink.
With horror, the Captain noticed that the offending bottle, containing a rag aflame that ignited the deck almost instantly, was one from his own stores aboard the ship. It was also of an excellent vintage.
Fire leapt upward and started consuming his precious vessel, and the Captain watched in shock as his love went up in smoke.
Wendy surfaced a short while away, gasping for air as a strong arm wrenched her upward and into a small row boat. Of course she could swim, thank you very much, but leading the Captain to think otherwise had left her in an excellent position. She shivered as she settled into onto the bench.
"My arm is attached, you know," she said sourly, through chattering teeth. Her companion glared, throwing the canvas tarp at her, as means of a blanket. They both turned and watched the fire burn steadily in the pitch black night. By the light of the fire overhead, she could make out the shape of a boy, a little boy, hovering over the scene, no doubt watching with the same sort of sick curiosity that Wendy now looked on with. For a moment she considered calling out to him, but realized how foolish that would be.
In Peter Pan's mind, Wendy Lady, Wendy Mother, was in England growing up. Wendy Darling was in England living a normal girl's life of frilled dresses and manners and tea time. She was waiting for him to visit her window and take her back to Neverland.
And in a way, that was correct, because the sopping wet young woman in the rowboat below him was not the Wendy Darling of yesteryear.