بخش 02

CHAPTER 5

CAPTAIN PEMBRIDGE

THE BOYS WERE SHOWN TO THEIR QUARTERS in the Never Land by a gaunt, hollow-eyed sailor called Hungry Bob. He led them down a ladder and along a narrow passageway belowdecks, stopping in front of a low opening.

“Here you go, lads,” he said. “Your home away from home.”

Peter, followed by the others, ducked through the opening. What they found was depressing, even measured against the low standards of St. Norbert’s: a tiny, gloomy, windowless space, lit only by a sputtering oil lamp. The air reeked of smoke and rotten fish. The floor was bare, except for a chipped crockery pot in the corner.

“We’re all supposed to sleep here?” Peter said. “But there’s not enough room!”

“Oh, you’ll be glad you’re close together,” said Hungry Bob. “Keeps you warm.”

“But it smells,” said James.

“It does?” said Hungry Bob, sniffing. “Not so’s I can tell.” Hungry Bob was not exactly a fragrant flower himself. “Anyways, you get used to it.” He pointed to the crockery pot. “I put your dinner in the corner, there. You eat once a day, and you want to eat it right quick when I brings it, or the rats’ll get it first.”

The boys, who hadn’t eaten since the night before, brightened at the prospect of food. They gathered around the pot.

“Where’s the plates?” said Prentiss. “And the spoons?”

Hungry Bob had to grab the wall to keep from falling over with laughter. “Plates!” he roared. “Spoons!”

“Then how do we eat?” said Prentiss.

“Like the rest of us,” said Hungry Bob. “With your hands.”

The boys peered doubtfully into the pot, which contained a darkish liquid. It looked far from appetizing, but they were hungry. Tubby Ted, always the first to take action where food was concerned, cupped his hands and scooped out a handful of the liquid with some small grayish lumps floating in it. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, then shrugged and took a lump into his mouth. Immediately he spat it onto the floor.

“IT’S ALIVE!” he screamed.

The boys looked at the lump on the floor, and sure enough, it was wriggling.

“It’s a worm!” said Tubby Ted. “He fed us worms!”

Hungry Bob picked up the worm and looked at Tubby Ted.

“You ain’t gonna eat this?” he asked.

Tubby Ted shook his head violently.

“Your loss,” said Hungry Bob. Then, as the boys watched, slack-jawed, he popped the worm into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

“Moth maggot,” he said. “I prefers fly, but moth is good, too.”

Tubby Ted turned away, retching.

“You eat worms?” said Peter.

“I eats what I can, on this ship,” said Hungry Bob. “Ate a piece of rope once. Two months at sea, we was. Mr. Slank had me lashed for that, but it was worth it. That was tasty rope. You boys’d be wise to eat whatever you get, because you won’t get much.”

“But,” said Peter, “I mean … worms!”

“If you don’t fancy worms,” said Hungry Bob, nodding toward the communal bowl, “you don’t want to know what else Cook puts in there. Let’s just say worms is one of the choicer items.”

Thomas, peering into the pot again, gasped.

“There’s something swimming in there!” he said. “It’s … it’s a mouse!”

“Really?” said Hungry Bob, looking into the pot. “Why, so it is! Cook must be in a generous mood. Usually he don’t serve mouse ’cept on special occasions like Christmas.”

Thomas moved away from the pot. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Nor me,” said James, and then Prentiss. Tubby Ted was still retching.

“Sir, we can’t eat this,” said Peter.

“As you like,” said Hungry Bob, picking up the pot. “This’ll make a fine dinner for me. But in a day or two you boys’ll get hungry, and I’ll be taking this pot out polished clean by your tongues.”

“I don’t think so,” said Peter. “Look, sir, there must be better food on this ship.”

“Oh, there is, there is,” agreed Hungry Bob. “But not for me or you.”

“But, sir,” said Peter, “please, if you would …”

“Listen, boy,” interrupted Hungry Bob. “You’re wasting your time talking to me. I ain’t the one who decides these things. I’m a deck rat, not the captain.”

“Well,” said Peter, “what if I ask the captain?”

That struck Hungry Bob as even funnier than the request for spoons.

“Ask the captain?” he roared, almost choking. “Ask the captain? Yes! You do that! You ask Captain Pembridge for a nice dinner!”

Chuckling, muttering “Ask the captain!” to himself, Hungry Bob ducked back through the opening, carrying the dinner pot. The younger boys looked at Peter, who was not sure he liked being the one who was supposed to know what to do.

“All right, then,” he said.

The boys kept watching him.

“All right, then,” Peter repeated. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going, Peter?” asked James.

“I’m going to go see the captain,” said Peter. He wasn’t sure this was a good idea, especially after Slank’s warning to stay away from the aft part of the ship. But he figured he had to do something.

“You wait here,” he said to the boys, and ducked out into the passageway.

As Peter climbed the ladder, he heard a drunken voice bellowing. Reaching the deck, he looked around and saw that the voice was coming from amidships, where a red-faced and very round man in a comically elaborate, too-small uniform was shouting odd orders to an audience consisting of Slank and a half-dozen crewmen.

“AVAST THE MAIN MIZZEN!” the round man shouted.

“You heard Captain Pembridge!” shouted Slank. “Avast the main mizzen!” His voice was stern, but Peter saw he was smirking.

“Aye, aye, sir!” shouted the men, and, grinning, they began fussing busily with various lines, tying and untying knots. Peter didn’t know anything about ships, but he could see immediately that they were merely pretending to do something nautical.

“KEELHAUL THE SCUPPERS!” shouted the captain.

“You heard Captain Pembridge!” shouted Slank, struggling to keep his tone serious. “Let’s get them scuppers keelhauled!” The men were smiling openly now, making no effort to hide their contempt for the little round man.

They had good reason. Cyrus Pembridge was easily the worst captain in British nautical history. He had never bothered to learn even the basics of seamanship, choosing instead to occupy his time consuming vast quantities of rum. He held command of the Never Land solely because his wife’s family owned a shipping line, and his wife detested him. She had insisted that he be given a ship, her thinking being that he would be away from home most of the time; ideally, he would manage to sink his ship, and thus be out of her life altogether.

The shipping company, following sound business practices, had given Pembridge its most worthless ship, staffed with the most incompetent and disposable crew. The crew had quickly recognized that it was suicide to try to follow Pembridge’s commands, which never made sense anyway. It was Slank who ran the Never Land. But on those rare occasions when Pembridge staggered out on deck, Slank and the crew amused themselves by pretending to obey him.

“CAST OFF THE AFT BINNACLE,” Pembridge was shouting.

“Cast off that binnacle!” repeated Slank to the grinning crew.

Pembridge turned and looked at Slank, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Who are you?” he said. “And why are you shouting?”

“I’m your first officer, sir,” said Slank. “Mr. Slank. I’m just relaying your orders to the crew.”

“Ah,” said Pembridge.

“The aft binnacle has been cast off, sir,” said Slank.

“The what?” said Pembridge.

“The aft binnacle,” said Slank. “As you ordered.”

“I did?” said Pembridge, squinting suspiciously. “When?”

“Just now, sir,” said Slank.

Pembridge blinked at Slank.

“Who are you, again?” he said.

“Your first officer, sir,” said Slank.

Pembridge blinked again.

“My head hurts,” he said.

“Perhaps the captain would like to go to his cabin,” said Slank.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” said Pembridge. “I’m the captain.”

“Yes, sir,” said Slank.

“I’m going to my cabin,” said Pembridge.

“Yes, sir.”

The round man took a step, then stopped, frowning, his round body teetering.

“Which way is my cabin?” he said.

“That way, Captain Pembridge,” said Slank, pointing aft.

Pembridge teetered off. Behind him, the crewmen burst into laughter, only to be silenced by a scowl from Slank.

“That’s enough,” he shouted. “Back to work.”

From behind a mast, Peter watched Pembridge stagger aft. Now seemed as good a time as any to try to talk to him. Peter stepped out from behind the mast and …

“YOU! RUNT!” bellowed Slank. The man saw everything. “WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?”

“Nowhere, sir,” said Peter.

“That’s right,” said Slank, striding toward Peter. “You’re going nowhere. You’re to stay below, and you’re to come out when I say you can. We got work to do on this ship, and we don’t need you in the way. You follow me, runt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you swim, runt?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, you’ll find out quick enough if I see you on deck again without my permission.”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter. Feeling Slank’s glare on his back, he turned and went back down the ladderway, back to the cramped and smelly little cabin. As he entered, the other boys all looked at him hopefully.

“What did the captain say?” said Tubby Ted. “Can we have some real food?”

“Yes, Peter,” said James. “What did the captain say?”

“I … well,” said Peter, “… I didn’t talk to him just yet.” The boys’ faces fell. James looked down, and sniffed. “But I will!” said Peter. “I’ll talk to him. Just not right now. But don’t you worry,” he said, putting his hand on James’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine. I have a plan.”

“You do?” said James, looking up. “Really?”

“Of course I do,” said Peter, patting his shoulder.

“Oh, good,” said James. “Because I’m hungry.”

“I’m starving,” said Tubby Ted.

“We’ll have real food soon enough,” said Peter. “I promise.” And as he saw the hope return to the eyes of the other boys, Peter thought: I need a plan. CHAPTER 6

BLACK STACHE IN PURSUIT

SHE’S GETTING AWAY!” Black Stache bellowed. “Hurry up with Preston and Harbuckle! And ready those barrels!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” came a shout from below.

Through his glass, Black Stache saw the Wasp’s gleaming black hull race for the horizon, cutting a foaming white wake in the deep blue-green of the ocean. Black Stache had never seen a ship sail like that. He knew now that he no longer wanted only the Wasp’s treasure; he wanted the Wasp herself. He’d strip her flag and fly his own on her mast.

“What flag should we be flying, Cap’n?” First Mate Smee leaned his bulging belly over the open chest of flags captured from ships the Sea Devil had scuttled.

“Let’s make it something colorful,” said Black Stache. “The Union Jack would do just fine, eh? She’d like that wouldn’t she? Kissing cousins?”

Black Stache liked the British flag—he had a dozen or more in his collection—and felt especially proud when he sank a ship belonging to the Queen. Black Stache had no love for the Queen, no love for women of any sort, except for his ma. He had a real soft spot for his ma, and was truly sorry for the time he’d marooned her.

“What’s the delay down there?” Black Stache thundered. On the main deck, several men were tying a fat crewman’s ankles to his wrists behind his back, so he looked like a rocking horse. A gag covered the man’s mouth, or he would have been heard screaming for his life.

The Union Jack was run up the Sea Devil’s mainmast and snapped loudly in the wind. Black Stache held the glass to his eye again, watching the retreating Wasp, getting farther away each minute.

“How do you plan to take her,” said Smee, grinning. “Fire?”

One of Black Stache’s many tricks was to sail close to another ship at night and, using a smoking barrel of tar, make it appear the Sea Devil had caught fire. His prey would turn and come to help, only to be rewarded for this act of mercy by being attacked. But Black Stache knew that even if he could get the Sea Devil close, the Wasp’s captain, Scott, was too experienced to fall for that ploy.

“We’ll have to think of something better than that,” Black Stache said.

“The broken mast trick?” Smee slapped his leg. “I love that broken mast trick, Cap’n.”

Black Stache snorted. “She’s carrying the richest treasure ever taken to sea,” he said. “She won’t fall for the broken mast.”

Below, the crew had finished hog-tying the first man and had started on a second, also a portly fellow. He looked just as terrified, his cries muffled by a gag. Black Stache smiled. He loved other people’s misery.

“Cap’n,” said Smee, very timidly, “why’re they tying up Preston and Harbuckle?” Preston and Harbuckle were both very good sailors, and Black Stache seemed to be preparing to toss them overboard for no good reason.

Black Stache spat a gob onto Smee’s bare foot.

“Smee,” he said, “I’ve decided we’re going to take the Wasp the old-fashioned way.”

“Sir?”

“I mean without cheating,” said Black Stache.

“Without cheating, sir?” Smee said, shocked. Black Stache always cheated.

“Not this time,” said Black Stache. “Captain Scott won’t stop the Wasp for no trickery. We got to pure run her down, Smee.”

“But how, Cap’n?” said Smee. “Are we going to use the Ladies?”

Black Stache shot Smee a look of contempt, which sent a chill down Smee’s spine.

“You idjit,” the captain sneered. “We can’t use the Ladies on this heading. We’ve got to get abeam of the Wasp, then turn downwind. Then we raise the Ladies and run her down.”

“But, Cap’n,” Smee said timidly, “how do we get abeam of her? She’s fast as the wind, and pulling away.”

“Yes,” said Black Stache. “We need more speed, and that means we need to get rid of some weight. So I’ve ordered the crew to throw most of our water overboard.”

He pointed toward the stern. Smee turned, and saw crewmen rolling heavy wooden barrels toward the rail, and heaving them over the side.

Smee gasped. Even for Black Stache, this was insane. At sea, there was nothing more precious than water. Nothing. Not even rum. Nobody ever threw water away.

“Cap’n,” Smee sputtered, “sir, we can’t, I mean …”

“Smee,” said Black Stache, savoring his own malignant brilliance. “Water is heavy, right?”

“Yes, Cap’n, but …”

“And we’ll run faster without the weight, right?”

“Yes, Cap’n, but…”

“And if we run faster, we’ll have a better chance of catching the Wasp, right?”

“I s’pose so, Cap’n, but…”

“And when we catch the Wasp, we’ll have the Wasp’s water, won’t we now?”

Smee fell silent now, finally grasping the lunatic plan.

“Don’t you see?” said Black Stache. “It’s a carrot for the men. They know we’re carrying just enough water for a few days. So they know we have to catch the Wasp in that time, or they die of thirst. Isn’t it a fine plan, Mr. Smee?”

Insane, thought Smee. But what he said was “Aye, Cap’n. Brilliant.”

“Of course it’s brilliant,” said Black Stache. “And to make it even more brilliant, I’m going to give the crew another carrot.”

“Another one, Cap’n?” Smee did not like the sound of that at all.

“Yes,” said Black Stache, admiring his own genius. “Smee, aside from water, cannon, and cargo, what’re the two heaviest things on the Sea Devil?”

Smee thought for a moment, then said, “That would be Preston and Harb—”

He looked down at the deck, where the two fat pirates had been hefted into the dory, which was now being lowered alongside the ship.

“You see, Smee?” said Black Stache. “This’ll teach the men that they got to work hard. They must be worth their weight to me, Smee, or it’s over the side.”

Smee looked down at his own belly. It was not a small belly. Black Stache caught the look and smiled broadly, showing his brown tooth stumps. He continued to smile as the dory, with its squirming and terrified passengers, was cut loose, and quickly fell behind the Sea Devil, growing smaller by the minute, until it was gone. Along with most of the Sea Devil’s water.

“Good riddance,” Black Stache growled, and he spat again, a major gob, this time hitting Smee’s other foot. He turned to face the crew, now watching him warily.

“The deadweight is gone, men,” he said. “We’re picking up speed.” He gestured toward the dot on the horizon that was the Wasp. “She’s a fast ship, but we’re going to be faster. We’d better be, because your water rations are gone in three days’time. So work hard, men. Work hard, if you don’t want to join those two bales of lard drifting astern.”

Black Stache glared at the crew, daring anyone to challenge him. His glare was met by a fearful silence.

“Good,” said Black Stache. “Now, let’s get more sail up.”

The pirates scurried into action as if their lives depended on it, which they did. Black Stache turned to Smee.

“I’ll be in my cabin,” he said. “When I come back, I want that ship”—he pointed to the distant Wasp—“to be closer. If it’s not, we’ll have to toss some more weight over the side.”

He looked pointedly at Smee’s belly, then turned and stalked off.

Smee pushed the men hard all afternoon, and ate no dinner that night. CHAPTER 7

PETER VENTURES AFT

BY THE THIRD DAY the boys were so hungry that when Hungry Bob brought their daily slop, they actually ate some of it. They picked carefully through the lumps, still (to Hungry Bob’s delight) passing on the wriggling ones, and choking down others as best they could. But it wasn’t enough food, not nearly enough. Hunger now clawed constantly at their bellies.

Peter, still wondering if it was such a good thing to be the leader, was feeling intense pressure to do something. He had given up on pleading the boys’ case to Captain Pembridge. Several times now, the boys had heard the captain staggering around on the main deck, shouting senseless commands (“HEAVE TO ON THE STIZZENS! FURL THE YARDARM!”) to the vast enjoyment of the crew. Pembridge sounded even more confused than he’d been the first day; the sailors mocked him openly now.

No, Pembridge would be no help. And Peter didn’t dare approach Slank; to ask him for better food would be to ask for a lashing. And so, as the third day turned into the third night, and the boys prepared for another restless, hungry night in their dank little cabin, listening to James whimpering—and rats scuttling—Peter made up his mind: he would steal some food.

There had to be decent food on the ship. Slank surely wasn’t eating the swill that the boys got, and he just as surely wasn’t feeding it to the first-class passengers, like that girl Molly and her governess. No, they were eating decent food, and Peter meant to have some of it.

He figured it was stored in the aft part of the ship, where the important people slept, and the valuable items were stored. He’d done some poking around, and determined that there was no way he could go aft belowdecks without passing through the crew’s quarters, where he would surely be seen. His plan, then, was to wait for dark, then sneak aft on the main deck.

He waited until an hour past sunset, then carefully detached himself from the clump of dozing boys huddled together on the floor for warmth, and protection from the rats. Tubby Ted continued to snore, but James sat up, rubbing his eyes, and said, “Peter, where are you going?”

“Quiet,” Peter hissed. “I’m going to look for food.”

“I’ll go with you,” said another voice. Prentiss.

“And I,” said Thomas.

“Bring me a ham sandwich,” said Tubby Ted, awakened by the talk of food.

“I’m going alone,” said Peter, ducking out of the room. “And I’ll bring back what I can.”

“Be careful,” said James, behind him.

“Also, some cheese,” said Tubby Ted.

Peter climbed the ladderway to the deck, poked his head up and looked around. He saw a small knot of crewmen a few yards aft, looking off the ship’s port rail, talking; otherwise, the deck appeared to be empty. He eased himself out of the ladderway and slid on his belly to the starboard side, away from the men. Then, on hands and knees, he crawled aft.

As he neared the stern of the ship he heard loud talk and laughter coming from a cabin window. He recognized Slank’s booming voice, and the high-pitched giggle of Molly’s governess, Mrs. Bumbrake.

“Oh, Mr. Slank!” she was saying. “You are a devil!”

“That I am, Mrs. Bumbrake!” boomed Slank. “And you know what they say!”

“What do they say, Mr. Slank?”

“They say,” roared Slank, “the devil take the hindmost!”

Then Peter heard Mrs. Bumbrake emit a very un-governess-like squeal, followed by what sounded like a slap, followed by some thumping, then more squealing, then more thumping, and then much laughing. From the sound of it, Peter figured they wouldn’t be breaking up the party any time soon.

That takes care of Slank, he thought. Now all I have to worry about is the big man with the whip.

He checked around to make sure nobody was watching, then got to his feet, tiptoed aft, and descended some steps to a dimly lit corridor, flanked by four cabin doors. Molly is probably in one of these cabins, he thought, moving silently, until he reached a narrow ladderway leading down. Heart pounding, he descended the ladder, and found himself in darkness. He felt his way along the floor with his feet, toes outstretched. He then stood still for perhaps a minute, waiting as his eyes began to pick up what little light filtered down the ladderway from above. He saw he was in a long, low space. At the end was a doorway, and …

Peter froze. On the floor by the doorway was a man’s body. It lay slumped against the wall, head lagging sideways, and …

… and it was snoring. Peter relaxed a little. He peered at the sleeping man’s face, and recognized him as a member of the crew. Next to the man, on the floor, was a lantern, which apparently had gone out. The man’s right hand was loosely curled around a wooden club, about two feet long.

He’s on watch, Peter thought. He’s guarding the door, and he let the lantern go out, or he put it out, and he fell asleep.

Peter thought about it some more. If he’s on watch, whatever’s in that room is important. Maybe they keep the good food in there.

He hesitated, weighing the risk of waking the guard against the hope of finding food. Then his stomach growled, making the decision for him. Peter crept forward, keeping an eye on the sleeping man. He reached the door and put his hand on the knob, worried that the door would be locked, only to find that not only was it unlocked, it was slightly ajar.

That’s odd.

Peter gently pushed the door open and stepped inside. Again, he waited for his eyes to adjust, as this room was even darker. He heard a scuttling sound, but it was one he’d become all too familiar with: rats.

Please don’t bite me, he thought. I’m here for the same reason you are.

In a few moments he began to make out a bulky shape perhaps five feet in front of him. Holding his hands before him, sliding his feet, he started toward it, and …

What was that? It was a noise in the corner, something moving.

It sounds too big to be a rat.

Peter froze again, peering toward the source of the sound, and he saw something green—no, two green things—glowing, hovering. Peter stared at them and realized …

Those are eyes. But what has eyes that glow like that?

Peter was not interested in finding out. He turned and bolted for the doorway and …

WHUMP!

Peter bounced off a stout body and fell backward onto the floor. He’d run into the guard, who was now awake, and unhappy.

“OW!” said the guard, stumbling backward. He caught himself and lumbered forward into the room, shouting, “What do yer think yer OW!”

The guard, seeing poorly in the dark room, had tripped over Peter’s legs. He stumbled and pitched forward headfirst, falling and striking something behind Peter. Seeing his chance to escape, Peter scrambled to his feet and darted through the doorway, determined to get out of there as quickly as possible, only to stop when he heard the sailor’s astonished “Wha … ?”

Unable to control his curiosity, Peter risked a backward glance. The guard was on his hands and knees, next to the bulky shape on the floor. Peter, his eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness, recognized it as the canvas-wrapped cargo he’d seen being carried aboard the ship. The guard, his mouth agape, was staring at something above the shape.

A rat.

In midair.

A rat floating in midair.

Peter blinked his eyes, but there was no question: the rat was suspended in space, as if hanging from a string, but there was no string. As Peter and the guard stared at the rat, it waved its legs slowly, almost languidly, as if swimming, and began to drift toward the doorway, toward Peter.

Peter knew he should run, but could not move his legs, could not take his eyes off the airborne rodent now coming through the doorway. When it was about two feet away it seemed to notice him and, moving its right feet in a paddling motion, altered its course to the left, so as to just miss Peter’s head. Riveted to the spot, Peter watched it come, swiveling his head as it drew closer, closer, and …

Peter jumped as a hand gripped his arm.

“Peter,” a voice whispered.

Peter jerked his head around and saw: Molly.

Where did she come from? “Molly,” he said, “what are …”

“You need to get out of here now,” she said, pulling him away from the doorway.

Behind him, Peter heard the guard stumbling to his feet.

“Here, now!” the guard was shouting. “Stop, whoever you are!”

Peter felt Molly dragging him to the ladder.

“Come on,” she said, reaching the ladder and swiftly ascending it. Peter followed, his mind swirling now, thinking about the flying rat, remembering the eyes he’d seen glowing in the dark.

Molly has green eyes. They reached the next deck. Behind and below them, the guard was still yelling for them to stop. Peter started toward the stairway leading up to the main deck, but Molly grabbed his arm, opened a door, pulled him inside, and closed the door behind them. It was a small cabin, but cozy—two bunks, one slung over the other; a tiny bureau. The cabin smelled of lavender and face powder. This was obviously where Molly and Mrs. Bumbrake stayed.

“Molly,” said Peter, “what …”

He was silenced as Molly clapped her hand over his mouth. She nodded toward the door. Peter heard the sound of boots clomping down the stairway, then past the cabin door. Big boots.

The man with the whip, thought Peter. Little Richard.

Molly silently opened the door just as the top of the huge man’s head disappeared down the ladderway.

“Go,” said Molly, pushing Peter out the door. “Before Slank gets here.”

“All right,” said Peter, “but what was …”

“There’s no time,” said Molly. “Here, take this.” She turned, snatched a brown-paper package from the bureau, and shoved it into his hand. “Now, go.”

Peter heard more footsteps on the deck. Clutching the package, he raced up the stairway and, keeping low, scooted forward along the ship’s starboard rail. Behind him, he heard more yelling; one of the voices was Slank’s. But Peter’s path was clear, and he reached the forward ladderway unnoticed.

He darted down it and, with great relief, ducked into the boys’ cramped little space, which, at this moment, seemed almost pleasant.

James sat up. “Peter,” he said. “You’re back.”

Peter slumped to the floor, breathing hard, his heart pounding.

“What happened?” said Prentiss.

“Are you all right?” said Thomas. “You look scared.”

“I’m not scared,” said Peter, too quickly.

“What happened?” repeated Prentiss.

“Well,” said Peter, not sure how much he should tell, or how much the others would believe, “there was this room, and …”

“Did you get food?” interrupted Tubby Ted.

“Well,” said Peter, “I was trying to …”

“You did!” said Tubby Ted, spying the package and grabbing it from Peter’s hands. “You got food!”

“But that’s—”

Peter was interrupted by the boys’ shouts of delight as Tubby Ted ripped open the brown paper and triumphantly held up a loaf of bread.

“Peter!” said James. “You did it!”

“Yes,” said Peter, quietly, looking at the bread. “Of course.”

They managed to pry the loaf out of Tubby Ted’s hands long enough to divide it five ways. Although they could have eaten several more loaves, the worst of their hunger pangs were satisfied, and after they finished the last crumbs, they all quickly drifted off to sleep.

All, that is, except Peter, who tossed restlessly, reviewing his strange experience in the aft hold, questions swarming in his brain.

How could a rat fly? What was going on in that hold? Why were they guarding it? Why was Molly down there? Had those been her eyes he’d seen in the dark? They had to have been! But what kind of person has eyes like that, eyes that glow in the dark? How on earth could a rat fly?

The more Peter pondered these questions, the more he became convinced that the answers, whatever they were, had something to do with the trunk, the same trunk that had made that sailor act so strange on the day the ship left port. Peter went over it again and again in his mind, trying to remember if he’d seen anything else in the hold; there was nothing, he decided. Only the trunk. That’s what they were guarding.

I’m going to find out what’s in there. CHAPTER 8

ADRIFT IN A DORY

PRESTON AND HARBUCKLE, their hands tied to their feet behind their backs, lay on their fat bellies on the bottom of the dory, looking like a pair of pudgy rocking horses. Their situation—bound and gagged, abandoned at sea without food or water—had been bad enough to begin with, but it was getting worse.

They’d been drifting for a while now, each man struggling in vain to get free of his ropes. And now Preston, exhausted from the effort, could see that the water sloshing around the bottom with him was definitely higher.

The dory was leaking.

Figures, Preston thought. Black Stache wouldn’t waste a good boat just to kill us.

Preston strained to look around. He could see that the dory was riding lower now. As the waves rolled it, water sometimes sloshed over the sides.

The little boat was going down.

I’m going to drown, thought Preston. He felt a momentary pang of regret that he had not spent more time with his beloved wife. But it passed when he remembered that the reason he’d gone to sea in the first place was that he had never really liked his beloved wife.

The water in the dory was definitely higher now. Preston, who was not the world’s foremost thinker, was doing his best to formulate some kind of plan, when he heard Harbuckle, in the front of the dory, say something through his gag.

“Bmmmgh!” it sounded like.

Preston craned his neck to see his shipmate, who was looking back at him with a certain urgency in his eyes.

“Gmmmmph!” Harbuckle said, arching his eyebrows in a meaningful way.

Preston sensed that Harbuckle was trying to tell him something.

“Wmmmmbh?” he queried.

“Gmmmmph!” repeated Harbuckle, adding, “GMMMMPH!”

Harbuckle rolled sideways, so his back was to Preston. He looked over his shoulder and made a violent, look-down-there nod with his head toward his bound hands, the fingers of which were wiggling.

“GMMMMMMMMMPH!” he said, sounding very impatient now.

Ah! thought Preston. He wants me to do something. This seemed to Preston like a sound idea, doing something. But what? Preston made a frowny face at Harbuckle, to indicate, What?

Looking exasperated, Harbuckle rolled toward Preston, then rolled away again, again nodding violently toward his hands.

“GMMMMMPPPHH!!” he said, and suddenly Preston understood. He wants me to roll over, so he can untie my hands. What a good idea! He nodded his head violently, to indicate that he understood. Then, with a massive heave, he rolled his bulky body toward Harbuckle’s.

The good news was, Preston’s roll took him just the right distance; he and Harbuckle were now back to back, their hands just touching.

The bad news was, by shifting his massive weight forward to join Harbuckle’s, he had overburdened the bow of the dory, and cold seawater was now sloshing into the tiny boat.

“GMMMMMMMPPPHH!!!!” shouted Harbuckle, and Preston felt his shipmate’s hands clawing frantically at the knots on his own. He tried to hold still, but as the water rose, he had to squirm and struggle to keep his head above it—but the water was coming in fast, and Preston could no longer grab any gasps of air, and so he held his breath as long as he could, until his lungs screamed in agony and he grabbed at his aching chest and …

Wait a minute. He was grabbing his chest, which meant…

His hands were free!

Desperately thrusting himself up, Preston got to his knees, tore the gag from his mouth and gulped sweet sea air. He saw that the dory was now swamped, but he was still alive! He could barely believe it: a moment ago, he’d been at death’s door, but now here he was, still breathing, and he owed it all to …

Harbuckle!

Preston plunged his head back underwater and found his shipmate’s body, not moving. Frantic, Preston grabbed Harbuckle by the hair and yanked his head to the surface, where—thank goodness—it made a faint moaning sound. Preston yanked the gag from Harbuckle’s mouth, which began to cough, and then spew seawater, and then, finally, to speak.

“You idjit!” it said. “You rock-headed, lobster-brained MORON!”

“I’m sorry, mate!” said Preston. “I forgot you was down there!”

“You forgot I was down there?” said Harbuckle. “I untie your hands and save your worthless life and YOU FORGOT I WAS DOWN THERE?”

“Only for a minute,” said Preston.

“Untie my hands,” said Harbuckle, “so I can wring your neck.”

Harbuckle calmed down as Preston untied him, and both men began to understand that, although they had escaped immediate death, their long-term prospects were not good. They tried using their hands to bail out the dory, but it was hopeless: for every handful of water they scooped out, the waves brought more in. Eventually they stopped trying, as exhaustion, cold, and despair settled in.

And then Preston saw it, on the horizon.

“Look,” he shouted, pointing.

Harbuckle squinted, and he saw it, too.

A mast.

Harbuckle said, “You don’t suppose … ?”

“They’re coming back for us?”

“That couldn’t be good,” Harbuckle said.

“No,” agreed Preston. Perilous as their situation was, it was probably better than whatever Black Stache would have in store.

“Wait a second,” said Harbuckle, squinting hard. “That ain’t the Sea Devil.”

Preston took a long look.

“It ain’t the Wasp, either,” he said.

The two pirates looked at each other, then both rose up, nearly capsizing the swamped dory, and began waving their arms frantically.

“Over here!” they shouted. “We’re over here!”

With agonizing slowness, the distant ship drew closer; the two castaways, their voices growing hoarse, kept shouting and waving, desperate for a sign of recognition. Finally, Preston saw it.

“Someone’s waving at us!” he shouted, jumping up so violently that the much abused dory finally did capsize, leaving the two pirates swimming, or trying to.

But there was no question; the ship was steering toward them now, and as it drew close, both men could clearly see the person who’d been waving at them, the person who’d seen them first, and saved their sorry lives.

“Why,” said Harbuckle, “it’s a boy.” CHAPTER 9

THE RESCUE

PETER LEANED OVER THE PORT RAIL to watch as the two fat, wet men, clinging to knotted ropes, were hauled slowly aboard the Never Land. The seas swelled and shifted, the fat men crying out as they swung like pendulums.

Peter had seen the drowning men first; he’d pointed them out to a sailor, who’d run to tell Slank. Peter had kept waving as the Never Land drew closer, to let the men know they’d be rescued.

And now, as they were hauled aboard, Peter was as curious as everyone else to learn who they were, and how they got into their predicament. He joined the crowd forming a circle around the men as they sat on the deck, dripping, panting, looking apprehensively up at their rescuers. Peter noticed Molly on the other side of the circle. Their eyes met for a moment, then Peter looked away.

Why do I always look away?

“Move aside!” said Slank, shoving his way through the crowd. He stood over the two men and said: “Do you speak English?”

The fatter of the two (though not by much) nodded, coughed, and said, “Yes, sir.”

“What’re your names?” asked Slank. “What ship are you from? And how did you end up in the sea?”

“My name is Harbuckle, sir,” said the fatter one. “This here is Preston. We thank you, sir, for saving our lives. We was surely—”

Slank interrupted. “I asked you what ship you’re from,” he said. “And how you wound up in the sea.”

“We’re from … the … ah… the Marcelle,” said Harbuckle.

The slightly slimmer fat man, Preston, look at his mate, puzzled. “No we’re not,” he said. “We’re from the UNH—” His sentence was cut short by a sharp blow to the side of his head from Harbuckle.

“Hey!” said Preston, rubbing his head.

“Don’t pay him no mind,” said Harbuckle to Slank. “He’s confused from swallowing seawater. He knows good and well we’re from the Marcelle.” Harbuckle was glaring at Preston now. “Got that, mate? The Marcelle.”

“Is that so?” said Slank, quietly.

“Yes, sir,” said Harbuckle. “It surely is. She went down in a storm, a bad one. We was lucky to get the dory launched, sir, and if you hadn’t come along, we—”

“I know the Marcelle,” interrupted Slank.

“You do?” said Harbuckle, looking surprised.

“I do,” said Slank. “Tell me, did Captain Ferguson go down with the ship?”

Harbuckle hesitated, then said, “Aye, sir, that he did. He was a courageous man, Captain Ferguson.”

“Yes,” said Slank. “He was. Now, there’s one more thing I need you to tell me …”

“What’s that, sir?” said Harbuckle.

Slank drew his knife, the blade’s honed edge glinting. “What part of you do I feed to the sharks first?”

The crowd gasped, some drawing back, some moving in for a better view.

“No!” said Harbuckle, his fear-widened eyes riveted on the knife. “Please, sir! Why?”

“Because you’re a lying piece of kelp,” said Slank. “The Marcelle is commanded by Captain Paige. Captain Ferguson died twenty years ago.”

Slank took a step toward Harbuckle, who scrambled backward.

“Please, sir!” he screamed. “No! NO! I’ll tell you the truth!”

“And what would that be?” snarled Slank.

“We was thrown off the Sea Devil,” said Harbuckle.

Another gasp from the crowd.

Slank barked out a laugh. “D’you expect me to believe that Black Stache would sail with a pair of fat slugs like you?”

“It’s true, sir!” said Harbuckle. “I swear it!” He turned to Preston. “Tell him, Preston! Tell him what ship we’re from!”

Preston frowned. “The Marcelle,” he said.

“NO!” shouted Harbuckle.

“But you said …”

“TELL HIM THE TRUTH BEFORE HE KILLS US, YOU IDJIT!” screamed Harbuckle.

“Well, make up your mind!” said Preston. To Slank, he said: “I tried to tell you. We’re from the Sea Devil.”

Slank studied the two men. “All right, then,” he said. “If you’re from the Sea Devil, what were you doing in the sea? And before you answer, know this: if I think you’re lying, you’ll go right back into the sea.” He flashed the blade. “In pieces.”

Harbuckle gulped. “Sir,” he said, “Black Stache put us adrift in a dory.”

“And why would he do that?” said Slank.

“To lighten the Sea Devil,” said Harbuckle. “To give her speed. He even threw most of the water barrels overboard.”

Another crowd gasp.

“You’re lying,” said Slank, stepping forward again. “No captain throws water overboard.”

“It’s true!” said Harbuckle. “Black Stache is mad! He says now the crew will have to catch the Wasp. To get the water.”

“The Wasp?” said Slank. “Black Stache is after the Wasp?”

Peter noticed that, across the circle, Molly had moved forward a step.

Her father is aboard the Wasp.

“Yes,” said Harbuckle. “He says there’s a treasure on the Wasp.”

“And what would that be?” said Slank.

“He didn’t specify,” said Harbuckle. “He just said it was a great treasure. The greatest treasure ever taken to sea, he says.”

Peter saw Molly frown.

“The greatest treasure ever taken to sea,” repeated Slank, softly.

“That’s what he says,” said Harbuckle.

“Any clue to the nature of this treasure?” Slank asked.

“A trunk,” Harbuckle said. “It’s in a trunk. Black Stache has a prisoner, an officer of the Royal Guard. He’s the one told Black Stache about the trunk. Says a fine trunk was brought aboard just before the Wasp set sail, escorted by a dozen armed men.”

“What’s in this trunk?” said Slank.

Molly was staring hard at the pirate now.

“I dunno,” said Harbuckle. “The Guardsman prisoner don’t know, neither. Just that it’s to go from the Queen of England to the King of Rundoon by the fastest ship afloat, under the heaviest guard. Whatever it is in there, it’s important enough to have two royals concerned about it.”

Slank stared out to sea for a long moment, then looked back down at Preston and Harbuckle, who watched him fearfully, awaiting their fate. Another long moment passed. Finally, Slank spoke.

“You’re pirate scum,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Harbuckle, “but we …”

“Shut up,” said Slank. “You’re pirate scum, and what I should do is throw you both over the side right now.”

Harbuckle whimpered. Preston wet his pants, but nobody could tell, as his clothes were already soaked.

“But I’m going to let you live,” said Slank.

“THANK YOU, sir!” said Harbuckle. “A thousand …”

“Shut up,” said Slank. “I’m going to let you live for now, because you might be useful. For now. Little Richard!” The giant loomed behind Slank, his whip coiled on his fat leather belt. “Take this pirate scum below. The rest of you men get back to work.”

The crowd dispersed, the sailors murmuring about the drama they’d just watched. Peter edged his way toward Molly, who was still staring at the spot where Harbuckle had lain.

“Molly?” he said.

She looked up at him, her face blank, her green eyes devoid of their usual sparkle.

“What?” she said.

“I, uh … I… I know your father is on the Wasp,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Well, I hope he’ll be all right.”

“Thank you.”

Molly turned to go. Peter could see she didn’t want to talk, but he burned with curiosity.

“Molly,” he said.

She turned back.

“I wanted to thank you for last night,” Peter said. “For helping me.”

“You’re welcome.” She started to turn again, but Peter put his hand on her arm.

“Wait,” he said. “How did … I mean, what were you doing in that room? What are they keeping in there? And did you see the rat? In the air? Did you see it?”

Molly was staring at him now.

“Peter,” she said, “listen to me. This is very important. You mustn’t…”

“MOLLY!” The two youngsters were suddenly separated by the massive form of Mrs. Bumbrake, her front side toward Molly, leaving Peter face-to-face with her formidable backside. “I’ve told you a thousand times, you are not to be on this deck without me, and you are to stay away from the riffraff.”

“But…”

“No back talk, young lady! You come with me!” With Molly in tow, Mrs. Bumbrake barged away, leaving behind a cloud of lavender.

Peter watched them go.

I mustn’t what?

He drifted forward, toward a knot of sailors who were pretending to work while they gossiped. There was much to gossip about. There were the two rescued pirates, of course, but also something else, something that had happened last night, news of which was circulating around the ship.

“… guarding the door,” one of the sailors was saying. “He says one minute he was wide awake, next minute he wakes up on the floor. Like there was a spell cast on him, he says.”

Peter moved closer.

“Magic spell?” scoffed another sailor. “Not hardly. Too much rum, that’s your magic spell.”

“No,” said the storyteller. “Not John. He don’t drink, not a drop. That’s why Slank give him the guard duty. No, he says something put him out, and when he woke up, there was people in the room, voices. So John goes running in there, and somebody runs right into him!”

“Who?”

“He didn’t see. It happened sudden, he says. But whoever it was, he trips John, and down John goes, headfirst into that trunk.”

“What’s in that trunk, anyway?”

“Dunno,” said the storyteller, “but whatever it is, Slank guards it like gold. So anyway, John’s trying to get up, and his head feels bust open, and he looks up, and then he sees it.”

The storyteller paused dramatically.

“What?” asked one of the listeners. “He sees what?”

“A rat,” said the storyteller. “A flying rat.”

“You mean it was jumping? ’Cause I’ve seen ’em jump as far as …”

“No,” said the storyteller. “John says it was flying.”

“That’s the bump on his head talking,” said one.

“I dunno. It ain’t like John to imagine things.”

“Well I don’t believe it. I’ve sailed with rats for thirty years, and they don’t fly.”

“I think it’s true,” said a new voice, from a big man with a big wart on his nose—the sailor Peter had seen acting strange around the mysterious cargo on the first day. He looked around at the group. “I believe John,” he said.

“Why’s that, Alf?”

“Because the rat was in the room with that trunk. I touched that trunk, the day we set sail. There’s something strange about it.”

“Strange is one thing, Alf. Flying rats is another.”

“But I’m telling you, I felt it,” said Alf. “I felt something, I dunno, magic. I felt like …” Alf looked around, hesitant.

“Like what, Alf?”

“Like … like I could fly,” said Alf.

There was a pause, and then the crowd erupted in laughter.

“Sure, Alf, you could fly!”

“You’re a regular bluebird, Alf!”

“Look out,” said somebody. “Slank’s coming.”

The sailors, still chuckling, quickly dispersed, leaving Alf, red-faced, staring at his feet. Peter hesitated, then approached the big man and tugged at his sleeve. Alf looked down at him.

“What is it, boy?” he said.

“I believe it, too,” said Peter. “About the rat.”

Alf frowned. “Why?” he said.

Peter hesitated, then said, “Because I saw it.”

Alf bent over, his face now close to Peter’s.

“You saw it, boy? You was down there?”

Peter nodded.

“Did you see anything else?” said Alf. “Did you happen to see what’s in the trunk?”

“No, sir,” said Peter.

Alf studied him, then spoke softly. “But you want to,” he said. “You want to know what’s in there.”

Peter nodded again.

“Me too, boy,” said Alf. “Me too.”