“I would like to be able to protect myself, if the need arises.”
“The need will not arise, Miss Darling. My men are more than capable of protecting you, as they are every other unarmed member of my crew. Why should you be any different?” He stopped writing and looked up, watching her closely.
But Wendy said nothing. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, gazing back at him. Thinking. There was something about the way he was watching her. He was up to something. But what?
Hook returned to his journal, acting as though he had forgotten all about her. But, of course, he had already given himself away. There had to be a trap in it somewhere.
And suddenly, Wendy knew what it was.
He wanted her to say that she needed to be treated differently because she was a woman. To lay the argument between them to rest, once and for all, by her own words—thereby setting the precedent for any number of “special treatments” he might see fit to place upon her in the future.
Wendy smiled. As any well-trained logician knows, traps can work in either direction: once laid, they don’t care who they catch.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that, Captain,” she said. “As it happens, that is exactly the point I was about to make. Why should I be treated any differently? As you yourself have just implied, I should not.”
Hook looked up to watch her again, this time with obvious suspicion.
“The officers are to be armed. To protect the crew,” Wendy continued.
“That was the order,” Hook agreed slowly.
“And the navigator is an officer.”
Now Hook laughed.
It was a short but relieved sort of chuckle—the kind of laugh that implies one had believed oneself to be in trouble, only to have that trouble turn out to be nothing at all. Which should tell you that Hook still didn’t know Wendy Darling nearly as well as he thought he did.
“So that’s your game,” he said. “Unfortunately for your argument, you are not an officer, and therefore you do not need to be armed. Although I admire the attempt. You are to return your weapons to the quartermaster, for safekeeping.”
“Permission to speak freely, Captain,” Wendy replied.
“Traditionally, Miss Darling, one makes such requests at the beginning of a conversation,” Hook observed. Wendy decided to take this as an answer in the affirmative.
“What are the primary mechanisms by which every captain maintains his authority at sea,” she asked, “to protect himself and his ship against the ever-present threat of mutiny?”
At the word “mutiny,” Hook rose to his feet. His voice lowered to a snarl, and he placed both his hook and his good left hand before him on the desk, crouching over it as though he might leap across it at any moment.
“Be very careful what you say next. Men have walked the plank for such provocations.”
“Discipline,” Wendy replied calmly, answering her own question, “and the diligent separation of officers from seamen. Officers must maintain the respect of the crew at all times. If I hold the position of navigator, which I think we can agree has been firmly established, then how will it look if I am treated differently from the other officers? Will it not undermine the regard in which the crew holds me? Will it not, in fact, even place me in some danger?”
Hook continued to watch her, saying nothing, but his jaw shifted from side to side as he worked through her logic. She wasn’t wrong. If the men saw her as an officer, his refusal to arm her would undermine their respect for her perceived rank. And a ship’s officer who held no respect among the crew was a dangerous precedent to set.
On the other hand, the one thing she hadn’t said—the one thing they both knew to be true—was that the crew held her in low regard already, precisely because of her gender. Which meant he was damned either way. If he treated a woman as a full officer, he risked losing the respect of his crew. If he did not treat her as an officer, he would be undermining the strict discipline of his own ranks.
Impossible. The woman was impossible!
The only thing protecting them both was the ambiguity of her position. An ambiguity he had to maintain at any cost.
“Miss Darling,” he finally said, speaking softly but clearly, “you are hereby assigned to the defense personnel of The Tiger. You will be armed, as will every other member of the watch, officer or otherwise, but you will not, under any circumstances, wear an officer’s coat. You are only attached to this regiment. You are not of this regiment. Nonetheless, you are still under my command, and you will address me with the respect I am due as your commanding officer and as the captain of this ship. At all times. Especially in front of my men. Or I shall be forced to make an example of you—to maintain the very discipline for which you are so concerned. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Captain,” she agreed. “Perfectly clear. But as a member of the ship’s defense …” Wendy paused for just the briefest of moments. “Well, forgive me, Captain, but surely the ship’s defense personnel need to know how to kill the enemy?”
Hook inhaled deeply through his nose and then exhaled slowly. Their eyes remained locked together for what felt to Wendy like an eternity, but then he finally reached into the ammunition pouch that hung from his belt and retrieved from it a single musket ball, which he placed on the desk before him.
She walked toward it slowly, watching him for any sudden movement. But he remained perfectly still as she reached for it. If she had expected a glow, or some telltale warmth of magic, she found nothing of the kind. It was a perfectly ordinary musket ball, like any other, with one single, obvious exception.
It was made entirely out of silver.
t that exact moment, just as Wendy took the silver musket ball into her hand, and right there in that very same ocean, a little fish snorted in disgust. Or, at least, it tried to. A fish isn’t designed to snort or even to grumble properly, but this one clenched its jaw and expelled the sea through its gills in an angry sort of way nonetheless.
This might not seem like a momentous event. There were a great many fish in the ocean at the time, and while very few of them were trying to snort, the attempt would hardly be worth mentioning if not for the fact that this particular fish had a personal history with Wendy.
It was tiny. It was as red as dragon fire. And its name was Tinker Bell.
As you might recall, Peter Pan’s ship can only fly because of a magical trinket in the shape of a thimble. Tinker Bell made it and gave it to Peter, telling him it was a kiss. It was the most precious gift she could think of, so you can imagine how angry she was when she found out the Wendy had stolen it.
And how furious she was when Peter refused to be angry at all.
Tinker Bell insisted it was part of an insidious plot and the Wendy was coming back to kill them. Peter insisted it was an accident. Or some kind of game. Or maybe the Wendy just didn’t want them to leave without her.
It was almost as though he wanted her to have it!
Now, it’s true that the trinket belonged to Peter, so he could do with it as he pleased. And perhaps the innisfay was overreacting. But in Tinker Bell’s defense, when you give someone a gift, you don’t expect them to go around giving it away to other people. (This is especially true of kisses.)
So, when Peter eventually retrieved the thimble, crowing proudly that he had been right all along—that the Wendy had defied Hook himself to come rescue them—and when, in return, Peter had given Wendy the magical compass to lead the British to Neverland, well, it had all been more than poor Tinker Bell could take. She had flown off in a huff, fully expecting Peter to follow her and soothe her ruffled feelings with kind words and bold promises and maybe even a song or two.
Unfortunately for everyone, he had not.
As a result, Tinker Bell was exceedingly bitter. She had followed Hook’s ship all the way from London, first as a bile-green fish, reflecting her mood; then as a pearlescent silver fish, while she contemplated what to do; and finally as an angry red fish, because she co
uldn’t come up with any way to stop them.
Then, when Blackheart showed up, Tink thought for a moment that luck might have finally turned her way. She was no friend of Blackheart’s, but war makes strange bedfellows. If that good-for-nothing proved useful enough to drown the Wendy and Hook and a few hundred British sailors with them, she might even make him another thimble with her own hands.
But, of course, that isn’t how things played out.
So now she was swimming in the sea behind The Dragon, snorting in disgust. If it seems like a coincidence that she should snort in the exact moment Hook showed Wendy the silver musket ball, it isn’t really. Tink had been attempting to snort as a fish ever since that coward Blackheart had flown away. In fact, she had become so caught up in the experiment that she had almost forgotten about the Wendy and Peter and that vile Captain Hook.
Almost, but not quite.
Every so often she would rise to the surface, shift into her natural state, and fly up to glare through the very bottom corner of Hook’s window. She wasn’t trying to spy on him as much as she was just giving him the evil eye, but this time he wasn’t alone. Tink caught the glint of silver as the Wendy lifted the musket ball to stare at it in wonder, and that gave her an idea.
It was a brilliant idea. A perfect idea. She ducked out of view, trembling with excitement, and for the first time in days, her hair shimmered back into gold.
Wendy strode through the passageways of The Dragon with an air of determination. She clutched in her hand a wax-sealed order, written by Hook himself, granting her the right to silver ammunition rations for her arms. But when she arrived at the armory, she found it in an uproar.
The quartermaster was a lean but exceedingly tall man with dark, thinning hair and a perpetually somber expression. He stood just inside the door, issuing quiet but urgent orders to at least a dozen sailors who were taking items from various shelves and placing them into crates.
“No, not that one. That goes back to England. I said the fifth shelf goes to The Tiger. Yes, that one. Good.” He nodded to Wendy as she stepped through the doorway, then turned his attention back to the men, speaking to her without looking in her direction. “Yes, Miss Darling, how can I help you? All right, Mr. Deighton, that’s enough in that one. Close it up. But don’t take it yet. Just start on the next row.”
“I apologize for the timing, Mr. Quinton,” Wendy said. “I can see you’re very busy.” Unlike the quartermaster in London, Mr. Quinton had never shown her any sign of disrespect. She certainly didn’t want to upset him now.
“It is what it is, I’m afraid. The Tiger is a much smaller ship and will have a much smaller crew. There’s a lot to go through to make sure we have the best possible provisions for the journey. But we will persevere.”
“I’m sure we will, Mr. Quinton. I’m sure you will do a wonderful job.”
He paused for a moment to glance at her, then nodded again. “Thank you, Miss Darling. Did you have a requisition?”
“I did. Or, rather, I do, yes.”
Wendy handed him the orders. He didn’t even bat an eye when he saw the wax seal, nor did he show any outward reaction when he read its contents. A boy who appeared to be just a bit older than Nicholas was working farther into the storeroom, and he scrambled to his feet when he saw Quinton with the paper. Wendy realized he must be the quartermaster’s apprentice.
“Do you need me to fetch something, sir?” he asked quickly.
“No, no. I’ll fill this one myself.”
“Aye, sir.” The boy settled back down to his knees beside the crate he had been packing.
“Wait here, please, Miss Darling.” The quartermaster fished a key from a pocket hidden beneath his waistcoat and used it to unlock a door in the bulkhead behind his desk. “I won’t be long.”
This, Tinker Bell thought to herself, was taking forever.
She hovered at the side of the ship, peeking over the edge of the rail, waiting for all the elements of her brilliant plan to come together. And, of course, the Wendy was late—trying to ruin everything, as usual.
There were so many men chopping at the timbers scattered across the deck and hauling the pieces about. Too many for them all to pay proper attention. There was a scrub bucket right there. And a man walking toward it with a load of debris piled high in his arms. It would have been easy to dart in and make him trip over it. Oh, how Tinker Bell wanted to see him go sprawling across the deck! He might even drop the heavy timbers on his own foot! Imagine how he would hop about!
If she got the timing just right, he would blame the man next to him for moving the bucket. That would surely start a fight. And then they would all start fighting! Just think how much fun that would be!
But, no, Tinker Bell had a very specific plan, and it depended on the Wendy, who was clearly taking her time.
Tinker Bell’s entire body wriggled with anticipation. It was all she could do not to abandon the whole scheme and wreak as much havoc as she could right then and there. But she watched. And she waited.
She was very proud of herself.
She had even decided who she would target to set the plan in motion. He was louder than all the rest—a surly man with dark hair and dark eyes, a barrel chest and a small button nose, and an unusually wide mouth. He liked to yell at all the others. He wore a whistle around his neck and a gun at his hip.
And when the Wendy finally did step onto the deck, followed by that wretched dog, he was in exactly the right spot. Tinker Bell flew over the rail and bolted straight for him. The other men shouted and pointed. The dog barked like mad. Tinker Bell tugged at the surly man’s shirt front. He swatted at her, but he was a big, clumsy human and she was a tiny innisfay. She raced around him and tugged on the back of his shirt, making him spin. Some of the men started laughing.
“Don’t just stand there!” he shouted. “Get it!” But they laughed even harder.
She flew above him and tousled his hair. He slapped at her, but he only managed to smack himself in the head. She flitted down and tweaked his nose. The men roared.
Tinker Bell darted out of reach, shouting taunts at him in delicate jingle bell chimes. He pulled out his pistol. She danced a jig in the air, taunting him while he loaded the weapon. He lined up his aim.
“No! Hold your fire!” Only John and Michael had seen what was about to happen. Tinker Bell was in a direct line between Smee and Wendy. They shouted at him to stop, but the men were laughing too loudly.
Smee sighted down the pistol and fired.
n every life, there are moments—terrible, heartbreaking moments—that we wish we could undo. They move by in a flash, from the future to the present to the past in the blink of an eye, and by the time we realize what is happening it has already happened. The damage has been done, written in history, where it cannot be changed. For Wendy, this would forever be one of those moments.
She never even saw it coming.
She stepped onto the deck and heard the men roaring with laughter. She heard Nana barking. She caught a hint of the taste of pickles within the brine of the sea air, and then she saw Tinker Bell. She had just enough time to think, Why it’s Tink—
And then two things happened at once, long before Wendy realized there was any danger at all. One, Smee fired his pistol. And two, Nicholas, who had stepped onto the deck right behind Wendy, saw what was about to happen and shoved her as hard as he could.
Wendy was taken completely by surprise. She staggered to the right, barely managing to keep her feet as chaos exploded around her. The shot rang in her ears. A dozen men’s voices called out at once. And then suddenly, silence. All eyes turned to Nicholas, who stood perfectly still. He stared at Smee for a long moment, and then he glanced at Wendy.
“Good,” he said. “You’re all right.” He even smiled.
Then he blinked twice, and a small crinkle formed above his nose, as though he were trying to solve a puzzle. He looked down at his own left side, where a stain of fresh blood was spreading across his shirt,
and his eyebrows rose in quiet wonder. “Well, look at that,” he said. “I think I’ve been shot.” Then his knees buckled under him and he fell to the deck, passed out cold.
When Wendy finally understood what had happened, she couldn’t even move. It was as though time itself had stopped, and she wished with all her might that she could turn it backward. Not for a day. Not for an hour. Not even for a minute. But just for one crucial moment. Surely that wouldn’t be asking too much. One tiny moment to take back the worst thing that had ever happened in her life. So she would see it coming. So she would notice the gun. So she would stand her ground when Nicholas tried to push her.
She wished and wished, as hard as she could, and for one agonizing moment she thought it might be working—that she had held off the flow of time itself, stopping it between one breath and the next. No one spoke. No one moved. Even Tinker Bell froze like a hummingbird in midair. But it was just an illusion, and time marched inevitably forward.
Smee lowered his gun, his face rigid with fear. Wendy fell to her knees at the boy’s side and pressed her hands desperately across his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. The red stain on his shirt continued to spread, and suddenly Wendy remembered poor Reginald, the night his leg was severed clean through and his blood had pooled on the lawn of Dover Castle.
The night he had died, and then come back again.
Still leaning over Nicholas, Wendy turned to Tinker Bell and shouted, “Get Peter!” And then she started to cry. “Please! He needs help! Please, get Peter!”
“What’s this? What’s happened?” Hook’s dark baritone startled her. He had come running when he heard the shot, and now he emerged through the hatch to find Nicholas lying on the deck, obviously wounded.
“Dear God in heaven,” he murmured. Hook turned to Jukes, the barrel-chested man with tattoos up and down his arms, who happened to be standing nearby. “Find Mr. Pettigrew,” he ordered. “Hurry!”
The Navigator Page 3