بخش 04

CHAPTER 15

THE ATTACK

CAPTAIN SCOTT STOOD ALONGSIDE the Wasp’s helmsman, calling out commands that were relayed to the crew via the first mate’s booming voice. Leonard Aster stood just behind Scott, his attention fixed on the ship pursuing them.

The Sea Devil was gaining. No matter what maneuver Scott tried, the enormous black brassiere grew steadily larger, blotting out much of the sky.

For all the peril they faced, Leonard and Scott retained their British calm, sounding like two gentlemen discussing the weather.

“He will be upon us soon,” Scott said.

“It appears so,” Leonard answered.

“I would not have thought it possible,” said Scott, shaking his head. “Those sails, I…” He trailed off, then added, “I assure you, sir, my men will be ready. We will repel them.”

Aster was quiet for a moment, studying the Sea Devil, now close enough that he could easily see the scowling faces of the pursuing pirates, waving swords and shouting vile taunts at their quarry. He turned to Scott.

“Captain,” he said. “I request to be put overboard in a dory with the trunk. At once.”

Scott stared at him, his composure momentarily deserting him. “Are you daft, man?” he said. “You can’t outrun that ship in a dory!”

“No,” Leonard agreed. “But it would force Black Stache to make a choice. If he chooses to go after me and the trunk—and I believe he will—then he’d turn broadside to the Wasp.” Leonard paused a moment. “And if your cannon were made ready and waiting…”

“…he’d be squarely in the line of fire,” said Scott. He thought about it, clearly tempted for a moment, then shook his head. “But so would you. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t put you at risk like that. You’ll stay on board.”

The two men locked eyes for five long seconds, then Aster spoke again, his voice low and urgent.

“Captain, I remind you once again that I am on a mission for the Queen, and that I speak with her authority. The trunk must not—cannot—fall into the hands of this pirate. Your men are brave, but clearly outnumbered. If the enemy boards us, we will be defeated. My plan involves risks, but it is our only hope. On the authority of Her Majesty, I order you to have your men put me and the trunk over the side. Immediately.”

Scott reddened, and appeared to be on the verge of arguing. Then, slowly, he exhaled, and turned to the first mate.

“Prepare a dory to starboard,” he ordered. “Bring up Aster’s black trunk. Have the men prepare the starboard cannons.”

The first mate hesitated, surprised by the unexpected orders.

“At once!” Scott said.

“Aye, Captain!” The first mate relayed the orders.

“Thank you, Captain,” Leonard said.

“Do not thank me, sir. I fear those orders are your death sentence.”

“Well,” said Aster, “perhaps we can lessen the danger.”

Scott answered with a questioning look.

“I believe you have an archer in your crew,” said Aster.

“I do,” said Scott.

Leonard gestured up the Sea Devil’s huge, billowing double-coned sail, now looming almost overhead. “That garment appears to be made from a fine fabric,” he said. “I suspect it would burn very well.”

Scott squinted up at it, then looked at Aster with a small smile. “So it would,” he said. “You’ve seen battle, Mr. Aster.”

“That I have.”

Scott turned to his first mate. “Send for Jeff the archer,” he said. “He’ll want his bow, and some flame.”

Black Stache stood at the helm of the Sea Devil, watching his crew work as his ship closed on its prey. The Ladies had performed as hoped; the Sea Devil felt almost as if it were flying across the water. The Wasp, sleek and fast as she was, didn’t stand a chance.

Just wait ’til the Ladies are raised on that mast, he thought. Not a ship in the world will outrun her.

This pleasant thought was interrupted by Smee’s high-pitched voice.

“Cap’n, they’re getting ready to launch a dory!”

Stache snatched the spyglass and had a look. He drew a sharp breath; not only were Wasp crewmen getting a dory ready, but it appeared that the passenger was a man in gentleman’s clothing, and the cargo was…a black trunk!

What trickery is this?

Stache frowned, pondering the situation. Was the trunk a decoy? If he turned to pursue it, the Ladies would lose the wind and be useless—the Wasp would regain the advantage and quickly put water between them. But if he let the black chest escape and it proved to be the treasure…

“Cap’n, should we…”

“Out of my way!” shouted Stache, shoving Smee aside and striding quickly amidships, stopping at the cage holding the prisoner. He knelt, reached through the iron bars, grabbed the man by the coat of his now-filthy uniform, and pulled him close, so that only the rusting cage separated their faces. The prisoner recoiled from Stache’s foul breath.

Stache shoved the spyglass into the man’s hands.

“You tell me, mate,” Stache said. “That there trunk being loaded off the Wasp. Is that the treasure?”

The prisoner, weak with hunger and fear, trembled so badly that Stache had to support the spyglass for him.

“Black and shiny she is,” Stache said, helping him find it, “wearing a gold emblem on her sides.”

“Y—y—yes,” the man stammered. “Th—that’s it. Sir.”

Stache leaned back, appraising the man’s terrified face. “You understand, lad, if them words ain’t the truth, they’re your last on this earth?”

“I…I…” The prisoner tried to swallow, but could not. “I swear, sir. That’s it.”

“Very well,” said Stache, to himself. He stood, rubbing his chin absentmindedly, wondering if…

“TROUBLE, CAP’N!” It was Smee hollering from the upper deck, his stubby right arm pointing up.

Stache looked up. What NOW?

And then he saw it—

The Ladies were burning.

Captain Scott patted Jeff the archer on the shoulder.

“Good work,” he said, nodding toward the Sea Devil. The right cup of the enormous brassiere was afire, the flames spreading quickly.

“Stand ready, son,” he said. “We’ll need you again.”

The archer, a thick, bald man, nodded.

Scott looked across the ship to where Leonard Aster stood, waiting as sailors lashed the trunk inside the dory. Aster was staring at the trunk.

Scott allowed himself a moment’s speculation—I wonder what’s in there, to be worth dying for—then called out to Aster.

“Good luck, Mr. Aster. God willing, we will have you back on board within the hour.”

Aster looked over, his green eyes intense. He said nothing, answering only with the briefest of nods. He touched the gold chain around his neck, feeling for the locket, as if assuring himself that it was there. Then he climbed into the dory and gestured to the boatswain, who barked a command. Four sailors swung the dory out on its davits and lowered the little boat into the surging sea, carrying a passenger, and a cargo, that Scott was duty-bound to protect.

I had no choice, thought Scott. He gave me no choice.

Then he turned to the task of trying to save his ship.

Black Stache knew when to cut his losses. Scott had a reputation as a clever sailor; the burning Ladies were proof that it was justified.

“Cut loose the Ladies,” Stache ordered Smee.

“Cut them loose, Cap’n?” said Smee. “The Ladies?”

“Yes, you idjit, and NOW, before the masts and rigging catch fire,” Stache said. “Attach a mooring buoy to the starboard sheet, then cut them loose. We’ll come back for them later.”

Smee relayed the commands, and the crew responded quickly. The flaming Ladies floated away from the ship like a gigantic kite, then fluttered and sank, falling into the sea with a loud hiss and a cloud of steam. The mooring buoy bobbed nearby, marking the spot.

No wonder he’s the captain, thought Smee.

Stache looked ahead. With his sails gone, his ship was now falling behind the Wasp.

“FULL SAILS,” he bellowed to the crew, bypassing Smee. The men scrambled to the lines, and the Sea Devil’s regular sails were up in seconds. Stache was counting on them to steal the Wasp’s wind, and he was gratified to see the fleeing ship’s sails flutter. Now he knew he could catch the Wasp…but should he?

Or do I go after that dory?

The little boat, with the gentleman aboard, was just ahead of the Sea Devil now, perhaps forty yards to starboard, close enough that Stache felt as if he could reach out and touch the trunk. He could see the gentleman watching him intently, betraying no emotion, his oars idle at his sides.

As if he wants me to come for him.

Stache knew he could easily chase the dory down by tacking to starboard, but then he would lose his advantage over the Wasp—or, worse, expose his broadside to her cannon fire. He could pursue the Wasp, but it would take time to overtake her, and more time to defeat her. By then he might not be able to find the dory again.

What to do?

Stache cursed a particularly foul curse, and splattered the deck with an angry gob of spit.

Nobody understands how hard it is, being captain.

With grudging respect, Scott saw how quickly Black Stache rid himself of the burning black sail, raised new sails, and continued the pursuit.

He’s gaining again. He’ll have us soon.

Scott pondered his options. He could turn broadside and try using his cannons, possibly taking Stache by surprise.

But he might already be close enough to board us before we can get off a shot.

He could jibe—ducking away from the Sea Devil’s sails—regain the wind advantage, and run for it.

But that would be leaving Aster behind.

He watched the dory, and Aster, growing smaller, now abeam of the Sea Devil.

I can’t leave him. He studied the Sea Devil.

If he turns toward the dory, we will attack.

But what if the Sea Devil did not turn? Could he risk his ship and its entire crew to save the life of a single passenger?

Scott felt the eyes of his men, awaiting his next command.

Nobody understands how hard it is, being captain.

Smee knelt next to the prisoner’s cage and fumbled with a heavy ring of keys, nervous under Stache’s glare.

“Hurry it up!” Stache said, glancing up to check the Wasp and then the dory, now abeam of his ship and slipping behind.

The prisoner, not knowing what was happening, watched apprehensively as Smee unlocked the padlock and opened the cage door.

Stache pushed Smee away, grabbed the trembling prisoner by his uniform coat, and again pulled him close.

“You’ve been most helpful,” said Stache, his voice oily.

“Th—thank you, sir,” said the prisoner, daring to hope that his cooperation had won him freedom from the cramped cage.

“Yes,” continued Stache, “very helpful. So helpful, in fact, that I’ve decided to let you go.”

“Thank you, sir!” said the prisoner. “Th—NO PLEASE SIR NO…”

His gratitude turned to horror as Stache, in a startling display of speed and power, dragged him swiftly to the starboard rail and hurled him overboard.

“Cap’n!” shouted Smee, shocked.

“Yes, Mr. Smee?” said Stache, leaning over to watch as the prisoner thrashed, gasping, to the surface.

“But he was…” sputtered Smee. “I mean, I thought he had information that…”

“He gave us what we needed,” said Stache. “And now he is providing another service.”

Smee looked puzzled.

“Behold,” said Stache. “As a British seaman, he knows how to swim, at least a little.”

Smee remained puzzled.

“And as a British seaman in distress,” continued Stache, “he cannot be abandoned by the gentleman in the dory, now can he? A proper Englishman would never leave another Englishman to drown. Behold our gentleman, Smee.”

Stache gestured toward the dory; Smee saw that the gentleman was reaching for his oars.

Stache said, “Have the harpooners make ready at the stern.”

Smee relayed the order, noting as he did that the dory was now turning toward the drowning sailor.

His chapped lips broke into a broad smile of pleasure, both at the cleverness of his captain, and the foolishness of proper Englishmen.

Leonard Aster had been studying the trunk, wondering how he could get past its padlocks without tools or weapons, when he heard the scream from the Sea Devil, and saw the man—a man in the uniform of a British seaman—hurled overboard. He saw the man struggle to the surface, thrashing desperately to stay afloat, but clearly unable to last much longer.

With no hesitation, Aster seized the oars. He understood that the pirates had thrown the seaman overboard in the expectation that he would do exactly this. But trunk or no trunk, Leonard Aster was not going to sit by and watch an Englishman drown. He clung to the hope that, as he approached the Sea Devil, she would turn to him, thus exposing herself to the Wasp’s cannon.

But to his disappointment, the Sea Devil did not turn.

He’s clever, he thought. He intends to slow my escape, while he wins the Wasp. Then he’ll come for me. For the trunk.

Aster glanced back, and saw he was close to the sailor, still afloat, but just barely.

I can still do it, Aster thought. With a bit of luck, I can save this man, and still be far enough away that the pirates won’t be able to find this tiny boat.

The thrashing sailor slipped beneath the surface. Leonard pulled harder on his oars.

Scott saw now that Stache had no intention of tacking to chase the dory.

He’s a clever one. He’s coming for my ship first.

Scott made a decision, and gave an order, instantly repeated by the first mate.

“Hard to starboard!”

The helmsman spun the wheel and the obedient ship quickly heeled, masts creaking, lines becoming taut. The sails went slack, shifted, then filled anew with wind. The Sea Devil was now coming up fast on his starboard side. He had a better angle on her now—better, though far from ideal. But there was no more time; in moments the Sea Devil would be on them.

“FIRE!”

The cannons roared, and Scott’s heart sank as he saw the balls fly over the Sea Devil. The cannoneers had aimed almost level, but the heeling of the ship had pointed the barrels high.

It had been gamble, tacking and firing, and now Scott was paying. The Wasp had lost speed; the Sea Devil, undamaged, was bearing down. There was barely time for another round.

“LEVEL HER OUT!” Scott roared. This time, we must not miss.

Leonard Aster heard cannonfire, then saw a ball, then two others, splash near him, as he shoved an oar deep into the water at the spot where he’d seen the sailor go under. He fought to hold the oar down, moving it side to side…

Come on…Take it…

He’d almost given up when he felt a tug. Straining, he slowly pulled the oar toward him, then grabbed the sailor’s arm and heaved him up with an effort that almost overturned the dory, which rode dangerously low in the water now from the weight of two men and the trunk. The man coughed and spat seawater, but seemed to be all right.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, still coughing.

“It’s quite all right,” said Aster.

“That madman…” began the sailor, but he was interrupted by two loud reports. Aster spun and saw twin dark lines coming from the stern of the Sea Devil and streaking directly toward the dory.

“DOWN!” he shouted, yanking the sailor with him to the cramped bottom.

The two harpoons, well aimed and shot with gunpowder, hit almost simultaneously, their barbed heads thunking into the transom. Ten-foot chains connected the harpoon shafts to thick rope leading back to the ship. In a moment Aster felt a tug as the lines tightened. The dory began to move backward; the pirates were using winches to drag it to the Sea Devil.

Black Stache is having it both ways, Aster thought, with grudging admiration. He’s going after the trunk AND the Wasp.

He lunged to the stern and tried to work the harpoons loose, but they were lodged too firmly in the transom. Desperately, he turned back and shouted to the sailor.

“Help me untie the trunk!”

“What’s that?” The man was still groggy from near-drowning.

“Untie the trunk!” Leonard repeated, struggling with a thick knot. “And hurry!”

The sailor managed to sit up and reach for a knot on the other side of the trunk. After a moment he shook his head. “Wet line,” he coughed. “This knot’s not coming out until the line dries.”

Aster yanked desperately at the rope. He looked back; the dory was almost to the Sea Devil now, the pirate ship’s stern looming overhead. At last he managed to loosen the knot. He got his hands under the trunk and tried to lift it, hoping to work it free from the rope on the other side. He could barely budge it.

Why is it so heavy? He tried to move it again, but could not. He looked back again and saw that he could touch the stem of the Sea Devil; pirates were clambering down rope ladders to grab the dory. He gave one last desperate heave on the trunk, but it barely moved.

It’s no use.

Captain Scott held off as long as he dared, waiting for the Wasp to level its cannons at the onrushing Sea Devil. When he could wait no longer, he gave the order.

“FIRE!”

The cannons boomed. One ball struck the pirate ship’s prow, beheading the wooden mermaid. The rest flew wide. The Sea Devil came on.

We’re going to be boarded, he thought. At least Aster may escape.

But that hope was dashed almost immediately.

“Captain Scott,” the first mate said. “Lookout reports that the pirates have the dory.”

“What!” said Scott. “How?”

“Harpoons, sir. They got it when Mr. Aster turned back to rescue a sailor from the sea, sir.”

“One of ours? I did not hear of a man gone overboard.”

“No, sir. It’s Bingham, sir.”

“Bingham?” Scott could not believe what he was hearing.

“Yes, sir. Lookout says the pirates threw him overboard, sir.”

“Bingham,” Scott muttered. The sailor had gone missing at the last port. Scott now understood why Black Stache had followed the Wasp.

He knew about the trunk. And now he has it.

He saw that the Sea Devil was still coming hard, pirates on the foredeck howling for blood.

He wants the Wasp, too.

“Archer!” Scott shouted.

“Sir?”

“Can you cut their halyards at this range?”

“A little closer, Cap’n, and I think I can.”

“Then do it. Bring down as many of their sails as you can.”

“Aye, sir.”

Scott turned back to his first mate.

“He means to board us,” he said, “but I mean to board him first. Tell the men to get swords and sabers and move to the stern. At my command, luff the sails. He’ll catch us more quickly than he suspects. And when he does, we board him.”

Scott knew he was taking another gamble.

I hope this one turns out better than the last.

Black Stache could not believe how well things were working out. He had the treasure, and he was about to take the Wasp, which might have outrun him had Captain Scott not chosen to turn and fight.

Idjit Englishmen, always doing what was right. “Dory’s aboard, Cap’n,” Smee informed him.

“Excellent,” said Stache, glancing back. He saw the retaken prisoner and the idjit Englishman who’d rescued him. The trunk had been hoisted onto the deck.

“TWENTY LENGTHS AND CLOSING FAST!” came the shout from the crow’s nest.

“Prepare to board!” Stache shouted, his excitement building. This was the moment a pirate lived for.

His men readied their swords, knives, and guns. Stache estimated that the two ships would come together in about five minutes. Glancing around the deck, he was seized by an impulse.

“Open the trunk!” he shouted.

“FIFTEEN LENGTHS AND CLOSING.”

“But, sir,” said Smee, “perhaps we should wait until after…”

“NOW!” Stache roared. “OPEN THE TRUNK!”

The greatest treasure ever sent to sea. Stache meant to see it now, in his moment of glory.

Two sailors fired pistols at the locks. The chains fell away. Stache saw the idjit Englishman move forward, staring intently at the trunk lid.

“What’s that look in your eye, Englishman?” Stache thundered. “You think a genie’s going to jump out and save you?”

“Something like that,” the Englishman answered, and something in his voice unsettled Stache for just a moment. As he watched, the Englishman’s hand reached inside his shirt.

“Grab his arms,” Stache shouted.

A burly sailor quickly pinned Aster’s arms behind his back.

“TEN LENGTHS!”

“Cap’n,” said Smee, “we…”

“Quiet!” said Stache, striding over to the Englishman and ripping open his shirt. A bright gold locket sparkled in the sun.

“What have we here?” said Stache. He reached for the locket, and as his fingers touched it, he felt the strangest feeling, as if…

“FIVE LENGTHS!”

“Sir!” shouted Smee. “I think they’re going to board us!”

The Englishman pulled back, drawing the locket from Stache’s grasp. Stache shook his head, as if awakening from a dream. He saw that the Wasp was less than three boat lengths away, its aft deck swarming with armed sailors.

He turned, stared for an instant into the intense green eyes of the Englishman, then leaned over to open the trunk. Time seemed to stand still as the lid slowly came up; a smile formed on Stache’s lips as he readied himself to gaze upon the greatest treasure ever sent to sea.

“WHAT?” he screamed. He looked up, his face twisted with fury. “What trickery is this, Englishman?” He grabbed Aster by the coat and dragged him around the trunk lid so he could see inside.

The trunk was filled with sand.

The Englishman gasped, snapped his head up, and looked out to sea, suddenly remembering Ammm’s message: On Molly ship…

Black Stache followed the man’s gaze. He’s as surprised as I am, he thought.

And then Stache remembered: there had been a second ship leaving port on the day he’d been watching the Wasp. It, too, had taken many trunks aboard.

“They pulled a switch, didn’t they, Englishman?”

Aster stared defiantly at the pirate.

“It’s on the other ship, isn’t it?” said Stache.

Aster’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

“TWO LENGTHS!”

“It seems you’ve been had, Englishman,” said Stache. “And so have I. But unlike you, I can do something about it, as soon as I have the Wasp.”

“BRACE YOURSELVES!” came the shout from above. “WE’RE GOING TO RAM!”

Stache gestured to the burly sailor. “Take the Englishman below and lock him up,” he said. “I’ll deal with him later.”

The burly sailor reached for Aster, but just as he did the prow of the Sea Devil struck the stern of the Wasp. The deck shuddered violently, and the sailor fell.

Before he could get up, Leonard Aster had leaped overboard.

Stache cursed and raced to the rail. Looking over he saw nothing at first, and then…was that the back fin of a porpoise?

There was no time to look further. An arrow whizzed overhead, and the Sea Devil’s mainsail came cascading down on Stache and his crew.

The battle had begun.

It took only a few bloody minutes for Captain Scott to understand the awful truth: his second gamble had also failed. His men fought courageously, but the pirates outnumbered them two to one. He could not stomach watching his men be slaughtered in a hopeless cause.

Despair seeping into his soul, he tied his white handkerchief to the tip of his sword and gave the signal for surrender. The flag was greeted by sullen acceptance from his brave crew, and howls of triumph from the pirates. Scott’s last, desperate hope now was that he could bargain, somehow, for the lives of his men.

But he held no hope for himself. He was the captain, and he had lost his ship.

The Wasp now belonged to Black Stache. CHAPTER 16

BAD NEWS

MOLLY CROUCHED ON THE AFT DECK of the Never Land, watching the water, waiting. The hours had crept by with agonizing slowness. But it was almost time.

At least tonight she didn’t have to worry about the men on watch. They’d found some rum somewhere, and when Molly crept by them earlier, they’d both been flat on their backs, snoring.

Heaven help this ship if we ever face any real danger.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the welcome sight of a dorsal fin breaking the surface, followed by the sound of a cheerful chitter. Molly leaned over the stern rail and, despite her anxiety, smiled broadly as a familiar silver shape appeared.

“Hello,” said Ammm.

“My teeth are green,” replied Molly.

“Yes,” agreed Ammm, politely.

With the formalities concluded, Molly clicked and chirped the message she’d been practicing all day.

“Ammm see Molly father?”

“Yes.”

Thank goodness. Carefully, Molly chirped: “What news?”

Ammm hesitated, then: “Bad man have father ship.”

Molly’s heart froze. “Molly father…” She struggled to make the sounds. “Molly father…”

“In water.”

Molly could barely breathe. “Molly father…” she began, but Ammm mercifully cut her short.

“We swim Molly father,” he said. “Swim to island.”

Molly almost collapsed from relief. The other porpoises are taking father to land. That’s why Ammm came alone. But…

“Molly father message,” said Ammm.

“What message?” said Molly.

“Bad man hunt Molly ship.”

Fear stabbed at Molly. The trunk. Somehow, Black Stache knows about the trunk. Father must know as well, so he…

Ammm chittered again: “Father come. Soon.”

But would he be soon enough?

Molly took a deep breath, fighting to control her feelings of panic, to form the right sounds.

“Message father,” she said.

“What message?”

“Hurry.”

“Hurry,” repeated Ammm.

“Yes.”

And with a brief farewell chitter, Ammm was gone, leaving Molly staring at the water, wondering how long it would take her father to reach land, to find a new ship, to set out to find her…

Meanwhile, the world’s most vicious pirate is hunting us down in the fastest ship afloat.

Molly had never felt so alone in her life. If Black Stache arrived before her father did, she had no choice: she would have to deal with the situation herself. She had to. And she could not fail.

She needed an ally. Someone she could trust.

She turned from the rail, to go looking for him. As she entered the ladderway, she cast one last glance back at the sea.

Please hurry. CHAPTER 17

THE NEXT TARGET

THE SEA DEVIL AND THE WASP, tied side by side, rolled in the dark waves as Stache’s crew, working by torchlight, finished the hard labor of moving barrels and crates from the conquering ship to the conquered one.

Belowdecks on the Wasp, Black Stache surveyed the tidy cabin that had once belonged to Captain Scott.

“A fine cabin, Mr. Smee, is it not?” he said.

“Aye, Cap’n, it is,” said Smee, thinking, and it smells much better than your old one.

“Have the prisoners been dealt with?” asked Black Stache.

“Aye, sir, as you ordered. Captain Scott and the others you wanted kept for ransom and barter are locked below. The rest will be set adrift in the Sea Devil, once we’ve moved her sails and provisions to the Wasp.”

“D’you think it’ll hurt me reputation, Smee? Allowing them to die of thirst, rather than slitting their throats?”

“No, Cap’n,” said Smee. “I think it’s a grand humanitarian gesture.”

“Well, tell our boys to hurry, before I change my mind,” said Stache. “It’s turning to daylight, and I want to get after that other ship—the one with me treasure—the . . . what’s it called again?”

“The Never Land, sir.”

“Stupid name,” said Stache.

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“I don’t much like Wasp, either.”

“No, Cap’n.”

“A wasp is an insect.”

“It is, Cap’n.”

“We’re pirates, Smee. Not insects.”

“No, Cap’n. I mean, yes, Cap’n.”

“A pirate ship needs a name that inspires fear in the heart of every sailor who hears it,” said Stache. He drummed his bony fingers thoughtfully on the desk that once belonged to Captain Scott.

Smee said, “What about the Jellyfish?”

Stache turned and stared at Smee with a look that Smee, unfortunately, mistook for encouragement.

“I mean the stinging kind,” Smee continued brightly. “I’ve seen grown men cry when they—”

“SHUT UP, YOU IDJIT,” thundered Stache, slamming the desk with his fist. He took a long, deep breath, then continued in a calm voice: “You don’t name a pirate ship the Jellyfish.”

“I just thought…”

“Shut up, Smee.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“Sailors will not feel fear in their hearts at the approach of the Jellyfish.”

“No, Cap’n.”

“I shall give this ship a pirate name, Smee.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“I shall give it the name of the most feared flag on the seven seas. The pirate flag, Smee.”

“That’s a fine name, Cap’n.”

“What is?”

“The Pirate Flag, Cap’n.”

Black Stache pressed his face into his hands.

“Smee,” he said, through splayed fingers. “You have seaweed for brains.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“The name of the ship will be the Jolly Roger.”

“But you just said…”

“THE JOLLY ROGER IS THE PIRATE FLAG, YOU KELP-BRAINED IDJIT.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“Now, get out of my sight, and send in Storey. We’ve work to do.”

Storey, who’d been waiting outside to be summoned, entered the cabin.

“Yes, Cap’n?”

“Have you found the Ladies?”

“Yes, sir. Wimple went out in a boat and got ’em back.”

“Good. We raise sail as soon as we’re done offloading the Sea Devil. We’re after the Never Land next.”

“Yes, Cap’n.”

“One of the prisoners was kind enough to tell me a few things about the Never Land,” said Stache, not bothering to mention that the officer had been staring at the point of Stache’s cutlass, an inch from his right eyeball. “He says she left port the same day the Wasp did, and she’s bound for Rundoon, same as the Wasp was. She’s a fat sea cow of a ship that can’t make better than five knots. So she’s well behind us.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“I want you to do your figuring, and put us on a zigzag course back in her direction, twenty mile tacks ’til we spot her masts. Understand? We’ll be flying Her Majesty’s colors. She’ll sail right to us, thinking we’re the Wasp. And then she’s ours. Get to it.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Storey, leaving. Stache drummed his fingers on the desk for another minute, wondering if he should go up and make a few prisoners walk the plank. He was tired, but it was important to keep up appearances. He was still pondering when there was a rap on his door; it was Storey again, looking ashen-faced.

“What is it?” said Stache.

“Cap’n…it’s…I think you need to come on deck and see for yourself, Cap’n.”

Following the navigator to the deck, Stache saw it instantly: a dark roiling mass of clouds spreading across the horizon, already huge, and…growing. Growing fast.

Black Stache had spent his life at sea; he had long believed that he’d faced the worst that the sea could hurl at him, and that he had nothing more to fear.

But seeing this thing coming toward him now, Black Stache, for just a moment, was afraid. CHAPTER 18

THE PLAN

PETER’S PLAN TO GET PAST THE GUARD named Leatherface was simple, but effective.

It involved rum. Peter was still not sure exactly what rum was, but he knew two things about it, from watching the Never Land crew.

The first was that the sailors loved to drink it, and gulped it down whenever they had any. The second was that it made them sleep. Sometimes it made them do strange things first—laugh, cry, sing, fight, talk about their mothers—but in the end, it always put them into a deep slumber, from which it seemed nothing could awaken them for hours.

Peter had also learned, from his many secret food forays around the ship, that the cook kept a barrel of rum in the galley. This was one reason why the Never Land’s food was so bad: the cook spent far more time drinking rum than cooking. He guarded his rum supply from the rest of the crew by sitting on the barrel virtually all the time, day and night. But much of the time, because of the rum, he was slumbering, which presented an opportunity for a small, clever person to creep up, quietly open the barrel’s spigot, and fill a jar. And that is what Peter had done.

The other part of the plan involved the foul pot of revolting “food” that Hungry Bob brought each morning in the crockery pot. Most days the boys left it untouched, which was fine with Hungry Bob, who collected it each night and happily downed its contents, wriggling bits and all.

But not this day. This day, Peter had taken the pot and dumped the rum jar into it. Both the food and the rum smelled foul to Peter; the mixture smelled no different.

He’d waited until dusk, then carried the crockery pot to a secluded spot on the forward deck, where Alf was waiting, as they’d arranged.

“Try to hurry,” Peter said. “Hungry Bob will be coming for this soon.”

“Right, little friend,” said Alf, taking the pot and heading aft. At the ladderway, he glanced around, then ducked down the ladder and scuttled along a dim passageway, and down a second ladder.

“Who’s that?” came a gruff voice. It was Leatherface, a tall, rawboned man whose skin had been ravaged by too many years in the wind and the weather. He stood in front of the door to the hold where the trunk was kept, his hand holding a club.

“It’s me,” said Alf. “Alf.”

“Nobody’s allowed down here,” barked Leatherface. “Slank’s orders.”

“But it was Slank who sent me,” said Alf. “He sent you this here grub.” He held out the pot.

Leatherface eyed it suspiciously. “I already had me grub,” he said.

“I know, I know,” said Alf. “It’s extra rations, for the extra work you’re doing.”

Somewhere deep in Leatherface’s brain was the beginning of a thought—that it was very much unlike Slank to make thoughtful gestures to the crew. But Leatherface was not one to encourage thoughts, and, like the rest of the underfed sailors on the Never Land, his instinct was to eat whatever there was to be eaten. He leaned the club against the hold door and took the pot from Alf.

“I’d be grateful if you’d finish it off now,” said Alf. “Save me a trip back down and up these ladders. Hard on me old knees.”

Leatherface grunted, raised the crockery pot, and began to swig the contents down. It tasted a bit unusual to him, but he’d had worse. At least most of the lumps were still.

A half dozen gulps later, the pot was empty. Leatherface handed the pot back to Alf, picked up his club, and issued a massive belch. “Now, get out,” he said.

“My pleasure,” said Alf, as foul burp fumes filled the passageway.

A few moments later, Alf was back on the foredeck, handing the pot to Peter, who peered inside.

“He ate it all,” said Peter.

“Like a bird eating a worm,” said Alf.

“How long, d’you think?” said Peter.

“If there’s a jarful of rum in there,” said Alf, “he’ll be sleeping like a babe in an hour’s time.”

“Right,” said Peter. “So we’ll meet here?”

“We’ll meet here.”

Peter hurried the crockery pot back to the boys’ cabin, where in a short while it was retrieved by a disappointed Hungry Bob.

“What’s this?” he said, examining the empty pot. “Have you lads taken a fancy to the cook’s grub?”

“No!” chorused the boys.

“Yes,” said Peter, casting a sharp look at the others. “I mean, no, but today we were…very hungry.”

“You’re not giving the grub to another sailor now, are you?” said Hungry Bob.

“No, sir.”

“You better not be,” said Hungry Bob, “after all I do for you, carrying this pot down here every day.”

When he was gone, James said, “Peter, what did you do with the food?”

“Never mind what I did with it,” said Peter. “You’re better off not knowing.”

“It’s that trunk, isn’t it?” said Tubby Ted. “It’s got something to do with that stupid trunk, right?”

“I said never mind,” Peter snapped.

“Creeping ’round the ship all the time,” muttered Tubby Ted. “He’ll get us all in trouble, he will.”

“You don’t seem to mind eating the food he gets from creeping around,” retorted James, drawing smiles from Prentiss and Thomas.

James turned to Peter. “Are we going out tonight, then?”

“I am, yes,” said Peter. “But I want you to stay here.”

James’s face fell. “But…but I thought I was helping. I thought…”

“You have been helping,” said Peter. “You’re a great help. But tonight I…it needs to be just me. You can help by keeping an eye on this lot. All right, mate?”

“All right,” said James, his eyes downcast.

“That’s a good man,” said Peter. “I’m off, then.”

In a moment he was on deck, where he found Alf waiting. Together they crept aft in the darkness, easily avoiding the two bored, gabbing sailors on watch. With Peter in front, they crept down the first ladderway and along the passageway. They stopped at the top of the lower ladderway, cocking their ears downward. There was a noise coming from below, a deep, irregular rumbling….

Snoring.

Peter glanced back at Alf, who nodded, and the two moved quietly down the ladderway. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they saw the dark form of Leatherface sprawled on his back in front of the hold door, right hand still curled around his club. Alf leaned over and took hold of the snoring man’s heels, then gently pulled him clear of the doorway.

Peter, heart pounding, reached for the door handle, and…

The door was locked.

It was a padlock, passed through a hasp. Peter’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought of this; the last time, the door had been open.

But of course; Slank wasn’t taking any more chances.

“It’s locked,” Peter whispered.

“What?” whispered Alf. “But you said…”

“I know,” whispered Peter. “It wasn’t locked before.”

Alf bent over and, in the dim-yellow light of the passageway lantern, peered at the door. He saw that the padlock and hasp, like all the iron objects on the Never Land, were old and rusted.

“Here,” he whispered. “Gimme that club.”

Peter bent down, gently pulled the club from Leatherface’s fist, and handed it to the big man. Alf slid the handle end of the club down behind the hasp, then took hold of the fat end with both hands.

“Be ready to run,” he whispered to Peter.

Alf heaved back on the club. Peter heard the hold door creaking, then a pop, then another. The hasp bolts were breaking. Another heave; two more pops. A final heave, and…

CLUNK CLUNKETY-CLUNK

. . . the hasp and padlock, suddenly yanked free, bounced across the floor. For a moment, neither Alf nor Peter moved a muscle. Then Peter glanced down at Leatherface; he continued to snore. Peter and Alf remained motionless for perhaps a minute, listening. They heard no steps running, no stairs creaking. Nothing. Slowly, they began to breathe normally again, and their attention returned to the hold door, now unlocked.

Alf tugged on the handle, and the door swung open. Peter and Alf peered in, seeing nothing at first in the pitch-black hold. Wishing he’d thought to bring a candle, Peter took a tentative step forward. Still he saw nothing. He felt Alf behind him. Again he slid his foot forward.

“Stop.”

Alf and Peter froze. The hissing voice had come from behind them, on the ladderway. Heart thumping, Peter turned and…

Molly.

“Get away from the door,” she whispered. “Both of you, get out of here now.”

“Miss,” said Alf, “we don’t mean no…”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” she said. “You must leave here this instant.”

Alf, his face worried, said to Peter, “Maybe we should…”

“No,” said Peter, furious. “We’ve come this far, and we’re going to go in there, and she can’t stop us.”

“Yes I can,” said Molly, her voice dead calm.

Peter and Alf both looked at her.

“I can scream,” she said.

“You wouldn’t,” Peter said.

“Yes I would.”

“You don’t dare,” said Peter. “You’re not supposed to be here, either. You’d be in as much trouble as us.”

“I could say I heard a noise,” she said. “I heard something fall.” She pointed to the padlock. “I came to investigate. And when I saw you, I screamed.”

“All right, miss,” said Alf. “No need for that.” He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Come on, lad.”

“No,” said Peter, shrugging off the hand, glaring at Molly. “You go, if you want. She doesn’t scare me.”

“I’m going to count,” said Molly. “If you’re not gone when I get to ten, I will scream.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Peter.

“One,” said Molly.

On the floor, Leatherface stirred, rolled over, resumed snoring.

“Little friend,” whispered Alf, his tone urgent now. “I’m going.”

“Go, then,” said Peter.

“Two.”

“Please, little friend.”

“No.”

“Three.”

“All right, then,” said Alf, shaking his head. “Good luck, then.”

“Four.”

Alf was up the ladder, and gone.

“Five.”

“Why are you doing this?” hissed Peter.

“Six. Because I have to.” Her face was grim.

“But why?”

“Seven. I can’t tell you.”

“Tell me what? Why can’t you tell me?”

“Eight. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?”

“Nine. Because I…Because it…it’s so…” Molly’s voice broke. Peter saw she was crying.

“Molly, please, whatever it is, just tell me. Maybe…maybe I can help you.”

For several seconds, Molly looked at him, a look of lonely desperation, tears brimming in her luminescent green eyes. Then she made a decision—Peter saw it happen—and her expression was grim again.

She’s going to say Ten, thought Peter. She’s going to scream.

Molly opened her mouth.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you.” CHAPTER 19

THE WITCH’S BROOM

THE WIND WAS MUCH STRONGER NOW. Not full-force yet; no, it was still a long way from the fury that every man on the Jolly Roger could see was coming. But it was strong enough to make the rigging shriek; strong enough to rip the hat from Black Stache’s head and send it tumbling across the aft deck, with Smee’s blubbery body scuttling after it.

Stache seemed not to notice. As the gusts tossed his long, greasy curls, he stared back toward the storm. Dwindling rapidly astern was the Sea Devil—barely a speck, now—manned by the sailors he’d thrown off his new ship. When the Jolly Roger had cast them off, they’d been frantically trying to jury-rig sails from whatever scraps of canvas they could find, hoping desperately to somehow outrun the black, boiling clouds bearing down on them.

Not bloody likely they’ll make it, thought Stache. It’ll be dicey enough for us.

The last of the Jolly Roger’s sails had just gone up, full and billowing; the masts groaned and the rigging creaked as the sleek ship, propelled by the mighty following wind, surged forward, sliding down the face of a great wave, then climbing the next. Stache grabbed a stout line to keep his balance, and looked up at the rigging, a rare expression of respect on his face. He was feeling more confident now.

“She’s a fine ship, this one!” he roared to the helmsman. “Have you ever seen such speed?”

The helmsman could only nod; even with his massive arms, he had to fight the wheel with all his strength to hold the course.

Smee, clutching Stache’s hat, staggered back across the sloping deck, casting a worried look at the storm. Most of the sky was now black; it was daytime, but the pirates below were using lanterns.

“Can we outrun it, Cap’n?” Smee asked, clutching the captain’s hat as if it were a baby blanket.

“Outrun that?” Stache laughed. “No, Smee, she’s a witch of a storm, and this here”—he waved at the wind—“is her broom. She flies too fast for us, Smee. She’ll be on us in a few hours. We’ll be reefing every sail we got and dragging sea anchors before this one’s through with us. But before that happens, we’ll ride this witch’s broom ourselves, Smee. We’ll fly straight to the Never Land. She’s out there, and we need to reach her before the witch herself does.” Stache looked again at the sails, then turned to the helmsman.

“I think we can coax another knot or two out of her,” he shouted. “Let’s put her on a broad reach, eh?”

The helmsman knew better than to question an order from Black Stache, but he shot him a glance. Putting the ship at a sharper angle to the wind would, indeed, increase its speed; but in this ferocious gale, it would also cause the ship to heel steeply, and put a massive strain on the sails, masts, and rigging.

Catching the helmsman’s look, Stache bellowed: “DO IT, MAN!”

The helmsman heaved on the wheel. The black ship slowly turned, groaning, and heeled hard to starboard. The crew grabbed for handholds as water crashed across the decks.

“HAUL IN THEM SAILS!” bellowed Stache. “GIVE ME MORE SPEED!”

Despite the fearsome angle of the deck, crewmen clambered to the winches and, working furiously, managed to take in a few more feet on the sheets, which were taut as piano wires from the massive strain of holding the sails. As the ship gained even more speed, the starboard rail went under, and from below came the crashing sound of unsecured cargo tumbling into the side of the holds.

“SMEE!” shouted Black Stache.

“Aye, Cap’n?” answered Smee, who was clinging to a mast, his chubby arms wrapped around it, holding the captain’s hat in front.

“Are the uniforms ready?”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Stache had ordered all the Wasp crewmen, including Captain Scott, stripped of their naval uniforms; they’d been left in their long johns.

“Good. Get below, and have the men come down one at a time and change into the uniforms. When those idjits on the Never Land sees Her Majesty’s fine ship coming their way, we’ll want them to see fine British seamen on deck, coming to their rescue.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, grateful for the chance to get out of the weather. He released the mast and lunged for a ladderway, staggering two steps before falling belly-first on Stache’s hat.

“I’m all right!” he called, crawling the rest of the way to the ladder. “I’m all right.”

Ignoring him, Stache turned to the helmsman, who was straining every muscle to keep the ship steady. Leaning close to the man’s ear, Stache said, “A gold piece to you, lad, if we reach the Never Land before the full weight of this storm reaches us.”

The helmsman glanced back at the rolling waves and punishing wind, then up at the straining sails, then forward into the stinging sea salt spray. “We’ll do it, Cap’n,” he said. “If these sails hold.”

Stache grinned a wide, yellow grin. The ship groaned as it rose to the top of a giant swell, then seemed to fly down the other side. The masts bowed and looked as if they might snap. At that moment sheets of rain poured from the sky, soaking both men and beating the ocean into a furious froth.

Stache, his long, wet locks streaming rainwater, tossed his head back and laughed.

He hadn’t had this much fun in years.