by Tony Main
‘A treat – something to lift everyone’s spirits.’
The captain smiled. ‘What would we do without you?’
‘Starve,’ said The Cook.
The sea otter hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you could make a treacle tart from Jandamarra’s provisions?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Just a thought, but I suppose that’s too much to ask,’ said Capt. Albern sadly, and left The Cook to ponder how to meet the challenge.
Misty’s crew and the children tucked into the surprise extra dish with relish, a large slice of crumbled biscuits steeped in a sweet aromatic liqueur brewed from Jandamarra’s supply of herbs, which The Cook informed them was an aboriginal recipe for treacle tart.
Sassy licked the last crumbs from her fingers. ‘You’ll sleep well tonight! No dreaming of Laughing Jack,’ she told Chantal.
Chantal, who still had nightmares about Laughing Jack, smiled. ‘If he’d been fed puddings like this as a child I do believe he’d be the nicest man alive!’
‘What’s more,’ said Jobey, ‘if that albatross had had a portion he’d be the happiest bird that ever flew.’
Seventy miles south of Misty, the albatross watched a ship sailing hard under full sail in heavy seas. The bird veered away from the company of the black-hulled vessel, preferring the solitude of the sky and the sea. It had warned the best it could.
At the helm of “The Executioner”, Laughing Jack cursed as a topgallant sail split and screamed at the crew to secure the flogging tatters of canvas.
‘You’re driving her too hard. That’s the second sail that’s ripped this week, and we’ve already lost one man overboard,’ warned Scarletta.
‘I don’t care how many sails we shred, and I don’t care how many men we lose. If that hedgehog is sailing for South America as you say, I want to be ready for him,’ snarled Laughing Jack.
‘He’ll come. He’s a dreamer. That is what makes him dangerous. He’ll come for the children.’
‘But this time I’ll be waiting. He may sail for the children, but I swear he won’t sail away,’ promised Laughing Jack.
Chapter 6
As Misty romped through blue seas flecked with white horses one warm Sunday morning, Noname waited impatiently on the quarterdeck with Sassy, Chantal and Max for his naming ceremony to begin. Chad formally piped Capt. Albern from his cabin, and the crew came to attention as the sea otter appeared from the companionway. He was wearing a pristine new cap for the occasion, which, noticing the crew struggling not to laugh, he hastily tucked under his arm. Skeet nudged Chips and pointed to his bowler, which the carpenter deferentially removed. Chips then elbowed Waff and pointed to his pipe, which the sailmaker apologetically hid behind his back.
Capt. Albern cleared his throat. ‘Today is a very special day,’ he announced, ‘for we are gathered here to witness the naming of this young boy.’ He faced Noname. ‘Under the authority conferred upon me as Master of “Misty Dawn”, I now name you Truename,’ he said, and smiling, stepped forward to present Truename with a roll of parchment tied with a red ribbon.
Truename felt so happy he was afraid he would cry.
‘Thank you very much,’ he mumbled.
Capt. Albern smiled gently. ‘It’s a good name, a name to be proud of, and I’m sure it will serve you well.’
Chips then made a presentation on behalf of the crew of a teak plaque, on which he had carved “Truename” and a relief of Misty in full sail. It was to be nailed to his bunk, Chips told him. The Cook followed, carrying a large cake.
‘Can Merrie have a big bit?’ whispered Truename.
‘Only because it’s your special day and you say so,’ grumbled The Cook.
‘Thanks, Truename!’ breathed Merrie, marvelling at the double slice he received. ‘What’s written on your scroll?’
Truename untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment, which officially confirmed his new name, penned in the skipper’s best copperplate handwriting. The document was signed Morgan Albern, Master Mariner, and stamped with a red candle wax seal. Merrie gave a low whistle. ‘Now that is something special!’ he said.
‘The best thing I’ve ever had,’ said Truename.
Week in and week out Misty held her course and the sun grew warmer. According to the charts she had inched half way round the world, but on deck her position never changed. She was always at the centre of a circle of sea, and by the time Skeet interrupted a class one afternoon to inform the children they were less than two hundred miles from the Brazilian coast, they were more than prepared to accept Doc’s assertion that the world was seventy-one per cent water.
Standing at the bow, Ancell wondered what South America held in store. Chad joined him.
‘From what I can remember of the instructions your bone man friend gave you,’ said the bosun, ‘the children are somewhere up the Amazon, which Doc tells me is some four thousand miles long, has five hundred tributaries, and flows through two thousand seven hundred square miles of rainforest. No chance of you being a bit more specific I suppose?’
‘I just know Ruth and Ryan are there. Something will happen.’
‘With you around it probably will,’ grunted the rat.
‘But what if Laughing Jack and Scarletta are following us?’
‘Forget them and look on the bright side. Compare Truename now with the terrified urchin you found. What’s more, he’ll make a fine sailor.’
Ancell brightened. Chad was right. Truename had long ceased to cling to him and grew more confident by the day.
‘Hedgehogs used to be called urchins,’ he remarked inconsequentially.
Chad was quick off the mark. ‘That doesn’t surprise me – you’re not exactly the most svelte of creatures, in fact decidedly lumpy compared to us rats.’
Ancell heaved a sigh. ‘And now you’re going to tell me what a wonderful tail you have.’
‘Watch this!’ commanded Chad, and curled his tail round the ship’s rail. Balancing on one leg, he raised the other behind him in the pose of a ballet dancer.
‘One day someone’s going to wrap that tail of yours round your neck,’ warned Ancell. Chad performed a pirouette and Ancell could not help but laugh.
‘At least I’ve got a smile out of you,’ said the rat. ‘Now stop worrying about Laughing Jack and concentrate on finding the children.’
One morning, the sea turned brown.
‘It’s the mud washed down the Amazon river,’ Skeet informed Merrie. The harvest mouse quickly climbed to the crowsnest to be the first to sight land. He returned disappointed.
‘I can’t see a coast.’
‘Nor will you for days. We are still a hundred miles off shore.’
Merrie sighed, it seemed they were never going to arrive, and another day of lessons was about to begin.
‘Truename hasn’t climbed the mast yet. You promised!’ he reminded the second mate. Skeet glanced at the languid swell and looked up at the sails, barely filling in the gentle breeze.
‘I’ll speak to the skipper, and if he agrees I’ll have a word with Doc,’ he consented.
Preoccupied with Misty’s estimated position and a table of tidal streams, Capt. Albern nodded his assent, and Skeet asked Doc if he had any objections to the exercise replacing the morning’s class. To his surprise the owl had none.
‘They’ve got that end of term feeling. Nothing is registering anyway,’ he admitted. He had struggled to hold the children’s attention ever since they had learned South America was not far distant, and had even coerced Ancell and Chad to give what he had intended to be a series of lectures.
Ancell talked about the countryside he remembered so well – the snowdrops bravely promising spring in the cold of winter, the banks of primroses, bluebell woods, fields of buttercups, and the flame red poppies of high summer. Closing his eyes, he breathed the sweet scent of hone
ysuckle. He opened them to a gentle snore. It was Max, and if the remainder of the class were listening, it was through closed eyes.
Doc had listened to his admission of failure with a shrug. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘I gave you the first period after lunch which is always the hardest.’
Chad was to have explained the importance of the great ports of the world and how they brought trade and wealth to the country they served. However, his recollection of harbours was of waterfront bars and brawls. He was describing a fight in San Francisco, which had been so satisfactory, the combatants still conscious the following morning had returned to replace the saloon door and mend the furniture, when Chantal interrupted.
‘What was the fight about?’
Chad looked perplexed. ‘I have no idea! Why do you ask?’
‘What was the point of it then?’ persisted Chantal.
Chad had been unable to answer, and on the pretext of urgent work to do, had fled to the sanctuary of the bosun’s locker, where he sat pondering Chantal’s question.
‘Seemed worthwhile at the time,’ he muttered.
Climbing the mast was a great success. With Tam and Thom at hand, Sassy, Chantal, Max and Truename each made the crowsnest to wave triumphantly to the crew below. Sassy and Chantal moved cautiously, Max started fast, contrary to advice, then stopped half way before continuing very slowly, and Truename walked up as if he had been doing it all his life.
Their achievement was the lunchtime topic of conversation.
‘The deck and all of you looked so small from up there,’ said Chantal.
‘Scary! agreed Sassy. ‘I felt quite shaky when I got down.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Merrie advised her with all the authority of a seasoned sailor.
‘How did you feel the first time you went up?’ asked Max.
‘Me? I went straight up and out on the topsail yard – and it was blowing a gale at the time,’ replied Merrie blithely, and without thinking. Too late he became aware of the crew’s laughter.
‘Strange! I wonder who it was we had to help down not so long ago,’ said Tam.
‘A very frightened harvest mouse as I recall,’ said Thom.
Merrie coloured. He had condemned himself out of his own mouth. No longer could he play the experienced mariner.
‘There was a bit of a chop at the time,’ admitted Tam.
‘And he’d spent the night hiding in the gig,’ added Thom.
‘So you’re a stowaway!’ exclaimed Max.
Merrie nodded, his humiliation complete. He glanced up, and to his amazement saw the children gazing at him in admiration.
‘How did you do it? How long did you hide? Tell us all about it,’ they chorused.
The Cook listened at the galley door. He smiled at the harvest mouse.
‘Now you have a true story to tell,’ he said.
Chapter 7
Misty dropped anchor, as far up the river as she could manage against the current, at a sprawl of dilapidated buildings crowding the waterside, and was immediately besieged by the local traders paddling canoes loaded with fruits and vegetables. A single canoe, paddled by a young girl who stared at the children lining the rail, kept its distance.
‘A watch on duty day and night, and the crew are to go ashore on ship’s business only, in pairs, and be back before sunset,’ Capt. Albern instructed Skeet and Chad.
‘The children are begging to look around the town,’ Skeet informed him.
‘Out of the question.’
‘It looks quiet and friendly,’ said Chad, ‘but there’ll be men here who’ll put a knife in you as soon as smile at you. It’s that kind of a place.’
Ancell stared up the broad river bounded by jungle stretching as far as he could see.
‘It’s hopeless. We’ll never find the children in that,’ he muttered.
‘Not so!’ said Skeet. ‘You’re always saying something will happen.’
‘And the sooner we make it happen the better,’ said Chad.
Ancell shrugged. ‘How?’
‘By doing what you would naturally do. We go ashore and ask. You and I are going to visit a few bars.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ agreed Capt. Albern. ‘News travels fast round these parts. If anyone knows anything they’ll talk if we make it worth their while.’
Groups of men carefully eyed Ancell and Chad as they climbed the rickety landing stage. After so long at sea the ground rose and fell beneath Ancell’s feet as he staggered close behind the bosun.
‘We’ll start at one end of the town and make our way through every bar,’ stated Chad.
‘You’ll get drunk,’ warned Ancell, glancing about him nervously.
‘I certainly will not. This is business,’ replied Chad briskly, and pushed open the door of the first saloon.
Ancell sipped at his glass and spluttered as the fiery liquid burned down to his stomach.
‘My friend here is looking for some children,’ announced Chad to the barman, displaying a quantity of silver coins as he paid.
‘A boy and a girl,’ added Ancell, still coughing.
The man eyed the money, but said nothing.
Chad emptied his glass. ‘We’re on board “Misty Dawn” if you hear anything,’ he called as they left.
‘I can’t drink any more of that,’ complained Ancell. The ground was now not only moving but spinning.
‘No need to – you look dopey enough anyway to draw people’s attention,’ replied the rat.
‘Glad to be of help,’ muttered Ancell, following Chad into the next bar. He did so many more times as they advertised their search, and by sunset had covered nearly every drinking den in the town.
‘Learn anything?’ demanded Skeet, the moment they stepped back on board.
Ancell shook his head.
‘We’ve still a few places to visit,’ said Chad. ‘As for now I’m having a snooze – that was rough liquor.’
Ancell watched the rat amble for his bunk and sighed. ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ he said.
‘Chad knows what he’s doing,’ replied Skeet. ‘I bet half the town are talking about us right now.’
Skeet was correct. Even as he spoke, Pablo Martinez, proprietor of the “Golden Nugget” hotel, a ramshackle building at the far end of the waterfront, was hearing of a hedgehog searching for two children. And Capt. Albern was correct. At that moment, a half-day’s paddle upstream, the first mate of “The Executioner”, stationed in the town to watch for Misty’s arrival was making his report.
‘The ship’s captain is a grey-haired sea otter,’ he added.
Laughing Jack grabbed the man and shook him violently. ‘Say that again,’ he ordered in a deathly whisper.
‘The captain is a grey-haired sea otter,’ the terrified man stammered.
Laughing Jack threw him aside. ‘Albern! I should have known,’ he muttered. ‘Who else but you would give that hedgehog a berth, and who else would sail into that creek at night. Do you remember we once sailed together? I remember you well. And you will remember me when I sink your ship.’
‘I told you they’d come,’ said Scarletta.
Laughing Jack looked about his hideaway. Hidden up a creek deep in the jungle, trees screened “The Executioner” and the camp from the river. A fifteen-foot stockade circled the compound, a cannon commanded a solid gate, and a bamboo tower watched over twenty yards of ground cleared of vegetation against a surprise attack.
‘And this time we’re ready for them,’ he growled.
‘Time to send the men,’ said Scarletta. ‘If the hedgehog goes ashore alone we kidnap him. If not, we’ll make sure he hears where the children might be, and he’ll walk straight into our hands.’
‘What if he doesn’t fall for it?’
‘He’ll follow any lead. He’s as determined to f
ind the children as we are to see him dead.’
‘And that’ll be the end to his dreams once and for all,’ said Laughing Jack, and laughed.
Night had long fallen when two of Laughing Jack’s crew took a room at the “Golden Nugget”. Drinking in the saloon they stared at the dark outline of Misty while Pablo carried plates of meat, rice and vegetables to their table.
‘Bring a bottle and join us,’ invited one.
Pablo poured three large glasses and pulled up a chair. ‘Be here long?’ he enquired.
‘Just working our way down river.’
Pablo observed that the men could afford to order meat. The foreigners passing through the “Golden Nugget” were invariably impoverished. Men broken by the country in which they had hoped to make their fortune. Such men did not buy him a drink.
‘Know anything about that ship?’ asked the second man, pointing to Misty’s anchor light.
Pablo wrinkled his brow. The man placed some coins on the table.
Pablo drained and refilled his glass. ‘A rat and a hedgehog have been ashore. They’ve been asking questions.’
‘What questions?’
‘That’s hard to remember.’
The man added to the coins.
‘The hedgehog is looking for two children.’
The men concentrated on their food. Pablo eyed them slyly.
‘Perhaps you could help him?’ he suggested.
‘I told you we’re just passing through,’ repeated the first man.
‘Of course,’ said Pablo, and waited.
‘But it would be interesting, just out of curiosity, to meet this hedgehog – perhaps somewhere quiet?’
‘Indeed so – just out of curiosity,’ Pablo agreed, playing idly with the money. ‘That could possibly be arranged.’
Again, the man reached into his moneybag. He smiled. ‘Now bring us another bottle,’ he said.
While the men drank, Pickle and Jobey patrolled Misty’s deck. Gradually the sound of waterfront voices faded into the still night air as bars emptied and doors slammed shut.
Pickle peered into the dark water swirling swiftly seaward. ‘I wonder if there are crocodiles?’ he mused.