Starcatchers 01 - Peter and the Starcatchers

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  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 st
range 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.”

  CHAPTER 10

  BLACK STACHE CLOSES IN

  BLACK STACHE HEARD THE SHARP WHISTLE pierce the night air—sounding like a gull’s hungry cry—and lifted his head to see his lookout wave from the crow’s nest.

  We’re in range.

  Stache banged the butt end of his sword on deck twice—thump, thump. Instantly, the eight long oars sticking out from the cannon bays lifted from the sea in unison, dripping water, and withdrew into the ship’s hull. The crew, desperate now for water as well as treasure, had been hard at it ’round the clock for almost two days straight, working both the sails and oars, reading the winds perfectly, closing the gap on the Wasp. Now they were ready for the final run.

  She’s mine.

  Black Stache thumped his sword three more times to summon his officers, then retreated below to his cabin, taking a seat at a table covered with navigational charts. Also on the table were two small, delicate models of sailing ships, one painted a shiny black like the Wasp, the other a replica of the Sea Devil.

  There was a tentative tap at the door.

  “Come in,” growled Black Stache. Smee entered and gagged; the cabin smelled like a dead cow. This was because there were, in fact, several pieces of dead cow on Black Stache’s bunk, as well as the half-eaten carcass of a turkey. Gnawed remnants of other meals littered the floor. Flies buzzed everywhere. Smee held his hand over his nose, trying to be discreet about it.

  “You called, Cap’n?” he said, his voice muffled.

  “It’s time,” said Stache, staring at the model ships. “The moment is at hand.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Smee, turning, desperate to escape the eye-watering stench. “I’ll just go up and tell the—”

  “Wait,” said Black Stache. “I want to go over the final plan with you and Storey.”

  As Smee reluctantly turned back, there was a second knock, and Storey, the Sea Devil’s crew chief, entered. He fell back, momentarily staggered by the odor, then scrunched up his face and forced himself forward into the cabin, like a man walking against a gale.

  “Aye, Cap’n?” he said, through gritted teeth.

  “Sit down, men,” said Stache.

  Smee and Storey looked around. There was nowhere to sit except the bunk, which was covered with rotting food, and a wooden stool, upon which sat a large fur-covered lump—an old cheese, perhaps, or a dead cat.

  “If it’s all the same, Cap’n,” said Storey, “I’ll stand.”

  “Me, too, Cap’n,” said Smee.

  Black Stache looked around his cabin, apparently noticing its condition for the first time.

  “Smee,” he said, “where the devil is my cabin boy? This place is a mess.”

  “You had him walk the plank, Cap’n,” said Smee.

  “I did?”

  “You did, Cap’n,” said Smee. “For touching your model ships.” Smee chose not to add that the cabin boy had walked off the ship almost cheerfully, knowing he would no longer have to try to clean Black Stache’s cabin.

  “Ah, so I did,” said Stache. “I’ll want you to get me a new cabin boy when we take the Wasp.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee. This would be the sixth cabin boy in less than a year.

  “Now, about the Wasp,” said Black Stache, looking at Storey. “Are we ready?”

  “We are, Cap’n,” said Storey. He pointed toward the ship models, careful not to touch them. “We’ve been gaining steady, with the rowing. Now we’re sitting just right for a downwind run. Your plan was right on the money, Cap’n. I don’t care how fast the Wasp is; with this wind, and this heading, when we raise the Ladies, we’ll close on her in no time.”

  “And the Ladies are ready?” said Black Stache.

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “All right, then,” said Black Stache, pausing dramatically, savoring the moment. “Raise the Ladies.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” shouted Storey and Smee, lunging for the doorway, and fresh air.

  After they left, Black Stache turned his eyes to his model ships. He put his hand gently, almost lovingly, on the model of the Sea Devil. Slowly, he moved it forward until it touched the Wasp. He kept pushing until the Wasp reached the edge of the table. Then, smiling, he gave it a vicious shove; the Wasp model fell, its delicate hull smashing into pieces on the floor. Black Stache laughed, his breath further befouling the rancid cabin air. Then he stood and, stepping on the remains of the Wasp, stalked out of the cabin.

  Time for the kill.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE MESSENGERS

  IT WAS JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, an overcast night, no moonlight or starlight reaching the dark deck of the Never Land. The wind was steady at about five knots; the fat ship plowed forward on a following sea.

  Molly, wearing a blanket like a cloak over her nightgown, emerged from the ladderway and looked quickly around. Seeing no one, she walked swiftly to the stern rail, her feet bare on the scarred wood of the deck. She’d not dared to put on shoes when she’d left the cabin, for fear she’d wake the snoring Mrs. Bumbrake.

  After glancing quickly around again, she leaned over the stern rail and peered out at the dark water. She saw only the ship’s churning wake, ghostly pale by the light of the ship’s lone stern lantern. Her eyes strained to see more.

  Where were they? She wondered if she was too early. Or, worse, too late.

  Telling time on the ship was a problem, especially when overcast skies kept Molly from seeing the stars.

  Five minutes went by. To Molly, it felt like an hour.

  Where were they?

  Molly heard a man’s voice, and she tensed, ready to race back to the ladderway. But then she heard another voice, and realized it was two sailors, well forward, passing another long night watch with the endless gossip of a ship at sea.

  Molly relaxed and turned her gaze back toward the …

  What was that?

  She squinted at the patch of dark water where she thought she’d seen something, at the rightmost edge of the roiling wake.

  There!

  Molly’s heart leaped as a gray shape flowed from the water, forming a graceful arc before disappearing again beneath the surface. The shape was followed by another, then another.

  Porpoises. Five of them, their sleek bodies keeping pace effortlessly with the lumbe
ring ship.

  Molly leaned over the stern rail and waved frantically, then caught herself, feeling foolish.

  They know I’m here, she thought. They see everything.

  As if reading her mind, a large porpoise rose straight up, using its powerful tail to lift its head well clear of the water, dancing on the churning water. It looked at Molly, grinning, and said, “Hello.”

  Not in English, of course. It spoke in clicks and squeaks. But Molly had studied enough Porpoise to understand the standard greeting. Struggling to recall her lessons, Molly squeaked and clicked (the clicks were the hardest) something back, which she hoped was “Hello.” What she actually said was “My teeth are green,” but the porpoise was too polite to point that out.

  Now the other four porpoises rose from the water, and, observing the protocol, also said “Hello.” Molly told them all that her teeth were green. With the pleasantries out of the way, the lead porpoise, whose name was Ammm, made a longer series of clicks and squeaks. Molly knew just enough Porpoise to understand that Ammm was asking her if she was all right. She expected this question: it had been arranged that the porpoises would check in with Molly tonight, and the assumption had been that Molly would tell them yes, she was all right.

  “No,” Molly said, struggling to get the sounds right. “Trouble.”

  This set off a chorus of chittering and chirping among the porpoises, all still standing on their tails. Molly understood none of it, but they were clearly concerned.

  Ammm turned to her again.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Molly had been thinking all day about how, with her very limited Porpoise vocabulary, she could say what she had to say. Leaning forward, speaking as clearly as she could—but not too slowly, as porpoises cannot understand slow talking—she said: “Message father.”

  “Say,” said Ammm.

  Molly’s heart leaped: she was getting through! But now came the hard part.

  “Bad man hunt ship,” she said.

  “Again,” said Ammm.

  Molly took a deep breath, then: “Bad man hunt ship.”

  More chittering among the porpoises. Then Ammm said: “What ship? Molly ship?”