Peter and the Starcatchers (15 page)

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

It involved rum. Peter was stil 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 gal ey. 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 virtual y al the time, day and night. But much of the time, because of the rum, he was slumbering, which presented an opportunity for a smal , clever person to creep up, quietly open the barrel’s spigot, and fil 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 col ected it each night and happily downed its contents, wriggling bits and al .

But not this day. This day, Peter had taken the pot and dumped the rum jar into it. Both the food and the rum smel ed foul to Peter; the mixture smel ed 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 wil 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 tal , 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 al owed 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 stil .

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 fil ed the passageway.

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

“He ate it al ,” 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’l be sleeping like a babe in an hour’s time.”

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

“We’l 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 al 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 al the time,” muttered Tubby Ted. “He’l get us al in trouble, he wil .”

“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 fel . “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. Al right, mate?”

“Al 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 stil curled around his club. Alf leaned over and took hold of the snoring man’s heels, then gently pul ed 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-yel ow light of the passageway lantern, peered at the door. He saw that the padlock and hasp, like al the iron objects on the
Never Land,
were old and rusted.

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

Peter bent down, gently pul ed 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 normal y 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. Stil 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 Mol y, 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 fal .” She pointed to the padlock. “I came to investigate. And when I saw you, I screamed.”

“Al 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 Mol y. “You go, if you want. She doesn’t scare me.”

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

“You’re bluffing,” said Peter.

“One,” said Mol y.

On the floor, Leatherface stirred, rol ed over, resumed snoring.

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

“Go, then,” said Peter.

“Two.”

“Please, little friend.”

“No.
”

“Three.”

“Al 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 tel you.”

“Tel me
what?
Why can’t you tel 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…” Mol y’s voice broke. Peter saw she was crying.

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

For several seconds, Mol y 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.

Mol y opened her mouth.

“Al right,” she said. “I’l tel you.”

T
HE WIND WAS MUCH STRONGER NOW. Not ful-force yet; no, it was stil 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 frantical y 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, ful and bil owing; the masts groaned and the rigging creaked as the sleek ship, propel ed by the mighty fol owing 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 al 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’l be on us in a few hours. We’l be reefing every sail we got and dragging sea anchors before this one’s through with us. But before that happens, we’l ride this witch’s broom ourselves, Smee. We’l 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.