Peter and the Starcatchers (19 page)

S
MEE PULLED HAND-OVER-HAND, hoisting the Union Jack high on the
Jolly Roger’
s mainmast, as Black Stache watched approvingly. Stache’s men were al now wearing British uniforms.

Stache glanced down at his own uniform—a
captain’
s uniform—and felt particularly handsome.

Stache peered through the glass at the
Never Land.
His swift ship had turned downwind and was now closing quickly on the old cargo hulk.

Any minute now…

“READY, MEN?” he cal ed out, and he was answered with a roar, as his men thrust their swords into the air.

“Keep those blades hidden!” shouted Stache. “Wait for my command!”

He raised his glass again. The
Never Land
was very close now; he could see the storm was treating her badly. Stache grinned.

They don’t stand a chance
….

T
HE GOOD NEWS SPREAD QUICKLY on the
Never Land.

“It’s the
Wasp
! The
Wasp
is coming!”

More sailors gathered at the stern, watching Slank as he raised the glass to his eye again.

“She’s changed course,” he said. “She’l be coming alongside, to port. It’s Captain Scott. He must have turned to run from the storm. Now he’s come to stand by us.

The crew was delighted. Instead of facing a monster storm alone at sea in a decrepit barge, they now would be escorted by the finest ship in Her Majesty’s navy.

“Al right, you bilge rats,” shouted Slank. “We hold steady until the
Wasp
is alongside, then we…”

“NO!”

Slank looked down, startled, into the frightened but determined face of Mol y Aster.

“What did you say?” he said.

“You can’t let that ship get close to us,” she said. “That ship is under the command of Black Stache.” The sound of the dreaded name drew a nervous murmur from the crew, quickly silenced by a laugh from Slank.

“Black Stache?” he said. “Young lady, with al due respect, Black Stache commands a ship cal ed the
Sea Devil.
That there”—he pointed at the approaching ship—“is the
Wasp.
I know her wel . We was in port with her. And that’s her.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mol y. “But Black Stache…”

“Mol y Aster!” Mrs. Bumbrake elbowed her way past the sailors and took Mol y by the arm. “You stop this sil iness this
instant.
”

“Let go,” said Mol y, yanking her arm free.

“Wel , I
never,
” said Mrs. Bumbrake. “Young lady, when your father…”

“Oh, be
quiet,
” said Mol y, startling Mrs. Bumbrake so much that she actual y became, for a moment, quiet. Turning to Slank, Mol y took a deep breath to calm herself, and said:

“Sir, you must believe me. That is the
Wasp,
yes. But it was captured by Black Stache, and he’s coming for this ship now.”

“And how do you know that?” asked Slank. “Did a seagul tel you?” This brought chuckles from the crew.

Something like that,
thought Peter.

“Please,” said Mol y, desperation in her voice, “I can’t explain how I know, but I
know.
That ship is commanded by Black Stache.” Slank’s smile wavered for an instant, then returned.

“Young lady,” he said, “even if that was Black Stache, which it ain’t, it’s only the finest ships he’s after. He wouldn’t waste his time on an old bucket like this, especial y not with that storm closing on him.”

“MOLLY ASTER,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, having recovered the ability to speak, now tugging at Mol y’s arm again. “YOU LEAVE OFF THIS SILLINESS AND COME WITH ME

THIS . . .”

“Please,” Mol y begged Slank, her eyes wel ing with tears of frustration. “You must
not
al ow that ship to reach us.” Slank turned and raised the spyglass to his eye again, taking a moment to find the fol owing ship. He took the glass away and looked back at Mol y, smiling again.

“Young lady,” he said, “that ship is manned by sailors of the British navy.” He held the glass out toward her. “Look for yourself.” Mol y took the glass, peered through it, then handed the glass back.

“It’s a trick,” she said. “It has to be. Please, listen to me! You can’t—”

“THAT’S QUITE ENOUGH, YOUNG LADY,” bel owed Mrs. Bumbrake, moving in.

“Al right then,” said Slank, visibly relieved, as he turned to the sailors who’d been watching the little drama. “WE GOT A STORM COMING!” he shouted. “BACK TO WORK, YOU BILGE RATS!”

“And
you’re
coming with me, young lady,” said Mrs. Bumbrake, towing Mol y toward the ladderway.

As Mol y was pul ed away, she caught Peter’s eye, and pointed downward. Her meaning was clear:
Meet me below.

Peter nodded. Dodging among the bustling crewmen, he found a relatively quiet place along the starboard rail where he could wait for a chance to go below. From time to time he glanced back at the fol owing ship, growing steadily larger, as was the roiling mass of clouds behind it. He didn’t know which he was more nervous about: Black Stache, or the storm.

I guess we’re going to get both,
he thought.

In a few minutes he saw his opportunity and ducked, unobserved, down the aft ladderway. He rapped softly on Mol y’s door, and she opened it immediately. Peter was momentarily startled to see Mrs. Bumbrake on her bed, snoring; then he understood.
Molly had put her to sleep.

“Hurry,” Mol y said, brushing past Peter and heading for the lower ladderway. He fol owed, and they descended to the hold level, where they had their first piece of good luck: there was no guard. Evidently Slank had decided that, for the moment, preparing for the storm was more important than protecting the trunk.

Their second stroke of luck came when Mol y pul ed on the padlock. It came off easily in her hand; their ruse had not been detected. She opened the hold door and, with Peter behind her, stepped inside. At first he saw nothing in the darkness, though Mol y seemed to know exactly where she was going. He heard her footsteps, then a rustling sound.

“Help me get the canvas off,” she said.

Holding his hands in front of him, Peter inched forward until he felt his knees bump into a solid bulk. He reached down, felt the rough canvas covering the trunk.

“There’s a rope,” said Mol y.

Peter’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He saw the rope, and helped Mol y work the canvas free. It dropped to the floor, exposing the trunk, and…

UHHHH

Moaning, Peter staggered back, momentarily blinded by a bril iant golden light fil ing the hold. He closed his eyes, but could stil feel the light, a powerful, wonderful warmth flooding into his body, feeling
so good.
And there was more—
bells,
it sounded like, making some kind of fantastic music…

“Peter! Peter!”

Mol y was shaking Peter’s arm. He opened his eyes to find the hold suddenly dim again.

“The light,” he said. “What did…”

“There are cracks in the trunk,” said Mol y. “It’s not made right; I think the cracks are getting bigger. I’ve put the canvas back on.” Peter’s eyes were readjusting. He saw the trunk now; the canvas was over it once again, tucked loosely into the rope. But now the whole bulk, canvas and al , was glowing faintly. Peter stared into the glow, feeling lightheaded, euphoric. Feeling
wonderful.

Mol y’s hand was on his arm again.

“Peter,” she said, “I know this is difficult for you. It’s difficult for me, and I’m used to it.” Peter struggled to speak. “What?” he said, his own voice sounding distant to him. “I mean, what shal we…”

“Help me lift it,” she said. “Take that end.”

Fol owing Mol y’s lead, Peter bent and, reaching under the canvas, took an end of the trunk. Immediately he heard the music again, and felt the wonderful warmth, surging through his hands, his arms, into his body. He fought to keep his mind on what Mol y was saying.

“Al right, then,” she said. “Lift it.”

They rose, and to Peter’s surprise the trunk rose with them as if it weighed nothing. Fascinated, Peter let go of his end of the trunk; it hung in the air for a moment, then slowly, slower than a fal ing feather, began to descend. He caught it again, and raised it with just the barest effort. He heard the music again, the bel s, and the warmth spread through his body.

He felt peaceful, relaxed, yet at the same time completely aware of his surroundings, of Mol y, of
everything.

“This way,” said Mol y, holding her end of the trunk as she backed through the hold door, Peter fol owing. They easily maneuvered the trunk to the ladderway, and Mol y began to climb the steps, guiding her end of the trunk with one hand; Peter, on the bottom, pushing the almost-weightless bulk upward with his fingertips.

They paused at the top of the ladderway, Peter again becoming aware of the creaking and rocking of the ship—he’d almost forgotten the storm raging outside.

“Where are we taking it?” he asked.

She pointed up. “To the main deck,” she said.

“But they’l see it!” said Peter.

“By the time they do,” she said, “it wil be in the sea.”

“Overboard?
” said Peter. “But I thought we were going to hide it!”

“There’s no time,” said Mol y. “Black Stache wil be here in minutes.”

“But what if it’s not him?” said Peter. “How do we know it’s him?”

“Because Ammm told me,” said Mol y. “And because there is no other reason why that ship would be coming for us now, in this storm. It’s not a rescue, Peter; it’s an attack.

And this trunk is what he wants.”

“But…” said Peter, “but…” He tried to think of an argument, but the only one that came to mind was:
But I want to keep touching the trunk.

Mol y studied his face for a moment.

“I know,” she said, softly. “I know. I feel it, too. More than you. But we must do this, Peter. Now.” She started forward again, and Peter, sighing, fol owed. They guided the trunk to the upper ladderway, and, again with Mol y leading, they ascended the steps. The wind was shrieking outside now; through the opening, Peter saw rain flying past sideways in dense gray sheets.

At the top of the ladderway, Mol y stuck her head out and looked around. She ducked back down, her hair now wet and in wild disarray.

“There are some men over there,” she said, pointing to the ship’s port side. “I think they’re shouting to the other ship. It’s very close. When we get the trunk onto the deck, we’l go that way”—she gestured to the starboard side—“and throw it overboard directly. Al right?”

Peter nodded.

“Peter,” Mol y said, “if anybody sees us, if anybody tries to stop us, we must keep going, do you understand? We must not fail.”

“Al right,” said Peter.

“Let’s go, then,” said Mol y, and, grabbing the end of the trunk, stepped onto the deck. Peter fol owed, and in a moment found himself drenched with wind-driven rain. As Mol y had said, a knot of sailors was at the port rail, shouting; in the swirling gloom beyond them, Peter saw the shape of a large, long, black ship, very close now; Peter recognized it as the ship he’d seen the day the
Never Land
left port, what seemed like years ago. Its crew was lowering sail, apparently preparing to come alongside.

On the raised deck at the black ship’s stern, Peter saw a stocky helmsman, fighting to control the wheel as the two ships drew together. Next to him, partial y hidden by a mast, was a tal man, wearing an officer’s uniform, apparently the captain. Peter noticed—even with the storm and confusion, Peter was noticing
everything
—that the tal man seemed to be deliberately using the mast to conceal his face. He looked at Mol y, and saw that she had spotted the tal man, too. She caught Peter’s eye.

“It’s him,” she said. “Come on.”

Stepping careful y on the wet, pitching deck, they guided the trunk toward the starboard rail. The yel ing from the port side was louder now, some of the shouts turned to cries of alarm as the two ships converged. Mol y and Peter reached the starboard side, and Mol y raised her end of the trunk over the rail.

“Now!” she shouted, over the wind.

Peter braced himself to shove his end and push the trunk into the sea. But as he did the hul s of the two ships, riding different parts of different waves, slammed together. Peter felt his feet slide out from under him as he fel backward, slamming the back of his head onto the deck. He heard a cry from Mol y and saw that she, too, had fal en, almost landing on him; he was dimly aware of the trunk settling gently onto the deck a few feet to the other side of her. From the port side of the ship Peter heard shouts, and now some screams.

Head throbbing, Peter struggled to his knees.

“Mol y!” he said. “Are you al right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m al right,” she said, sitting up. “The trunk! Peter, hurry!”

Struggling to their feet, Mol y and Peter staggered on the lurching deck to the trunk, Mol y reaching it first, leaning down and…

“PUT THAT DOWN!”

Mol y screamed as Slank, grabbing her by her hair, yanked her away from the trunk. Peter lunged forward, grabbed Slank’s arm, and sank his teeth into it, tasting blood. Now it was Slank’s turn to scream as he spun away from Peter, releasing Mol y—al of them crashing to the rain-slicked deck.