Peter and the Starcatchers (5 page)

F
AR FROM THE WHARF, wel across the bay and almost to the open sea, was a tangle of rocks so treacherous that no captain familiar with these waters would sail his ship there.

Over the years, many ships had struck these rocks and sunk; they lay in pieces scattered everywhere, masts, bows, keels. It was the perfect place to hide a ship. Angels’ Graveyard, it was cal ed, and it so frightened most sailors that they would not even look in that direction.

But there was a ship in there now, amid the huge rocks, long and low, black as coal, with three masts pointing toward the sky like skeleton fingers. On the foredeck stood two men, one squat and one tal .

“Can you see her?” said the squat man. He wore a striped shirt and blue wool pants that didn’t quite reach his ankles; his blistered bare feet were dark as tar.

“Not yet,” replied the tal man, squinting through a spyglass. He was a strikingly unpleasant figure, with a pockmarked face and a large red nose, like a prize turnip, glued to his face. His long black hair, greasy from years without washing, stained the shoulders of the red uniform coat he’d stolen from a Navy sailor on the high seas, just before escorting that wretched soul over the side of the ship. He had dark, deepset, piercingly black eyes, overshadowed by eyebrows so bushy that he had to brush them away to see through the glass. But his most prominent feature was the thick growth of hair on his upper lip, long and black, lovingly maintained, measuring nearly a foot between its waxed and pointed tips. It was this feature that gave him his name, the most feared name on the sea: Black Stache.

“There’s a hunk of worm food in the way, the
Never Land,
” he said. “What kind of fool name is that for a ship?”

“It’s a fool name, al right,” said the squat sailor.

“Shut up,” said Black Stache.

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Black Stache moved a few steps to his right, then squinted through the glass again.

“There she is!” he said. “The
Wasp.
Clear as day. Now,
that
there is a rival worthy of the
Sea Devil.
So she thinks she can sting us, does she? Outrun us?” He laughed, and so did the squat man, and so did the dozen or so pirates within earshot, though they didn’t know what they were laughing at. The crew of the
Sea Devil
understood: if Black Stache laughed, you laughed. If he snarled, you snarled. If he breathed in your direction, you ran for cover. “Ratbreath,” his sailors cal ed him behind his back. It was said that he liked to eat vermin raw, with a touch of sea salt.

When Black Stache had heard enough laughter, he raised his arm, and the crew quieted immediately. He turned to the squat man, who had been the
Sea Devil’
s first mate for a year now, the longest anyone had ever gone in that position without being heaved overboard by the captain.

“We’ve got the Ladies ready, don’t we?” asked Black Stache.

“Aye, Captain, we do at that.”

“Then we’l just see who’s the faster ship, won’t we, Smee?”

“Aye, we wil , sir,” said Smee, “if the Ladies hold.”

“The Ladies” were Black Stache’s secret weapon—a special set of sails he’d had the ship’s sailmakers make, using patterns that Black Stache had obtained from, of al places, a ladies’ corset maker. Though they had not yet been tested at sea, Black Stache was convinced that his invention would revolutionize the pirate industry. He was saving the Ladies for just the right moment, when he was heading downwind, closing on his prey for the kil .

“They’l hold,” he said. He spat on the deck, then turned to the sailors gathered near.

“We’l see who’s the fastest ship afloat, eh men?” he said. “And when we do, the
Wasp
won’t be floating anymore!” The sun-bronzed pirates cheered, and not just because they had to. They knew there would be treasure on board soon, with a share for them. Black Stache saw the greed in their eyes.

“Treasure, lads!” he shouted. “The greatest treasure ever taken to sea!”

The pirates cheered again, louder this time.

“Or so some have said,” said Black Stache, and he turned to stare at a cage on the main deck. There was a man inside the cage, a uniformed sailor. He huddled in a corner, shaking at the sound of Black Stache’s voice.

“And if this scurvy dog is wrong,” said Black Stache, his black eyes boring in on the terrified prisoner, “then he’l wish he’d never been born, that I vow.”

“The treasure’s on the
Wasp.
I promise,” cried the prisoner. “I heard it with me own ears.”

“It’d better be,” Black Stache said. “Or I’l wear them ears on a necklace.”

Ignoring the man’s whimpers, Black Stache turned and raised the glass to his eye again.

“They’re hoisting sail,” he said. “Making to catch the tide. Tel the men to make ready to fol ow.” Smee relayed the order, and the pirates swung smoothly into action. They didn’t look pretty, but they were an efficient crew, wel trained by the whip.

Black Stache ignored them, his gaze stil aimed through the glass.

“You’re mine,
Wasp,
” he mumbled on foul breath, a rare smile on his thin lips. “You, and everything you hold. Mine.”

T
HE BOYS WERE SHOWN TO THEIR QUARTERS in the
Never Land
by a gaunt, holow-eyed sailor caled Hungry Bob. He led them down a ladder and along a narrow passageway belowdecks, stopping in front of a low opening.

“Here you go, lads,” he said. “Your home away from home.”

Peter, fol owed by the others, ducked through the opening. What they found was depressing, even measured against the low standards of St. Norbert’s: a tiny, gloomy, windowless space, lit only by a sputtering oil lamp. The air reeked of smoke and rotten fish. The floor was bare, except for a chipped crockery pot in the corner.

“We’re al supposed to sleep
here
?” Peter said. “But there’s not enough room!”

“Oh, you’l be glad you’re close together,” said Hungry Bob. “Keeps you warm.”

“But it
smells,
” said James.

“It does?” said Hungry Bob, sniffing. “Not so’s I can tel .” Hungry Bob was not exactly a fragrant flower himself. “Anyways, you get used to it.” He pointed to the crockery pot. “I put your dinner in the corner, there. You eat once a day, and you want to eat it right quick when I brings it, or the rats’l get it first.” The boys, who hadn’t eaten since the night before, brightened at the prospect of food. They gathered around the pot.

“Where’s the plates?” said Prentiss. “And the spoons?”

Hungry Bob had to grab the wal to keep from fal ing over with laughter. “Plates!” he roared. “Spoons!”

“Then how do we eat?” said Prentiss.

“Like the rest of us,” said Hungry Bob. “With your hands.”

The boys peered doubtful y into the pot, which contained a darkish liquid. It looked far from appetizing, but they
were
hungry. Tubby Ted, always the first to take action where food was concerned, cupped his hands and scooped out a handful of the liquid with some smal grayish lumps floating in it. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, then shrugged and took a lump into his mouth. Immediately he spat it onto the floor.

“IT’S ALIVE!” he screamed.

The boys looked at the lump on the floor, and sure enough, it was wriggling.

“It’s a worm!” said Tubby Ted. “He fed us
worms
!”

Hungry Bob picked up the worm and looked at Tubby Ted.

“You ain’t gonna eat this?” he asked.

Tubby Ted shook his head violently.

“Your loss,” said Hungry Bob. Then, as the boys watched, slack-jawed, he popped the worm into his mouth, chewed thoughtful y, and swal owed.

“Moth maggot,” he said. “I prefers fly, but moth is good, too.”

Tubby Ted turned away, retching.

“You eat
worms
?” said Peter.

“I eats what I can, on this ship,” said Hungry Bob. “Ate a piece of rope once. Two months at sea, we was. Mr. Slank had me lashed for that, but it was worth it. That was tasty rope. You boys’d be wise to eat whatever you get, because you won’t get much.”

“But,” said Peter, “I mean …
worms!
”

“If you don’t fancy worms,” said Hungry Bob, nodding toward the communal bowl, “you don’t want to know what else Cook puts in there. Let’s just say worms is one of the choicer items.”

Thomas, peering into the pot again, gasped.

“There’s something
swimming
in there!” he said. “It’s … it’s a mouse!”

“Real y?” said Hungry Bob, looking into the pot. “Why, so it is! Cook must be in a generous mood. Usual y he don’t serve mouse ’cept on special occasions like Christmas.” Thomas moved away from the pot. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Nor me,” said James, and then Prentiss. Tubby Ted was stil retching.

“Sir, we can’t eat this,” said Peter.

“As you like,” said Hungry Bob, picking up the pot. “This’l make a fine dinner for me. But in a day or two you boys’l get hungry, and I’l be taking this pot out polished clean by your tongues.”

“I don’t think so,” said Peter. “Look, sir, there must be better food on this ship.”

“Oh, there is, there is,” agreed Hungry Bob. “But not for me or you.”

“But, sir,” said Peter, “please, if you would …”

“Listen, boy,” interrupted Hungry Bob. “You’re wasting your time talking to me. I ain’t the one who decides these things. I’m a deck rat, not the captain.”

“Wel ,” said Peter, “what if I ask the captain?”

That struck Hungry Bob as even funnier than the request for spoons.

“Ask the captain?” he roared, almost choking. “Ask the
captain
? Yes! You do that! You ask Captain Pembridge for a nice dinner!” Chuckling, muttering “Ask the captain!” to himself, Hungry Bob ducked back through the opening, carrying the dinner pot. The younger boys looked at Peter, who was not sure he liked being the one who was supposed to know what to do.

“Al right, then,” he said.

The boys kept watching him.

“Al right, then,” Peter repeated. “I’l be back.”

“Where are you going, Peter?” asked James.

“I’m going to go see the captain,” said Peter. He wasn’t sure this was a good idea, especial y after Slank’s warning to stay away from the aft part of the ship. But he figured he had to do something.

“You wait here,” he said to the boys, and ducked out into the passageway.

As Peter climbed the ladder, he heard a drunken voice bel owing. Reaching the deck, he looked around and saw that the voice was coming from amidships, where a red-faced and very round man in a comical y elaborate, too-smal uniform was shouting odd orders to an audience consisting of Slank and a half-dozen crewmen.

“AVAST THE MAIN MIZZEN!” the round man shouted.

“You heard Captain Pembridge!” shouted Slank. “Avast the main mizzen!” His voice was stern, but Peter saw he was smirking.

“Aye, aye, sir!” shouted the men, and, grinning, they began fussing busily with various lines, tying and untying knots. Peter didn’t know anything about ships, but he could see immediately that they were merely pretending to do something nautical.

“KEELHAUL THE SCUPPERS!” shouted the captain.

“You heard Captain Pembridge!” shouted Slank, struggling to keep his tone serious. “Let’s get them scuppers keelhauled!” The men were smiling openly now, making no effort to hide their contempt for the little round man.

They had good reason. Cyrus Pembridge was easily the worst captain in British nautical history. He had never bothered to learn even the basics of seamanship, choosing instead to occupy his time consuming vast quantities of rum. He held command of the
Never Land
solely because his wife’s family owned a shipping line, and his wife detested him.

She had insisted that he be given a ship, her thinking being that he would be away from home most of the time; ideal y, he would manage to sink his ship, and thus be out of her life altogether.

The shipping company, fol owing sound business practices, had given Pembridge its most worthless ship, staffed with the most incompetent and disposable crew. The crew had quickly recognized that it was suicide to try to fol ow Pembridge’s commands, which never made sense anyway. It was Slank who ran the
Never Land.
But on those rare occasions when Pembridge staggered out on deck, Slank and the crew amused themselves by pretending to obey him.

“CAST OFF THE AFT BINNACLE,” Pembridge was shouting.

“Cast off that binnacle!” repeated Slank to the grinning crew.

Pembridge turned and looked at Slank, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Who are you?” he said. “And why are you shouting?”

“I’m your first officer, sir,” said Slank. “Mr. Slank. I’m just relaying your orders to the crew.”

“Ah,” said Pembridge.

“The aft binnacle has been cast off, sir,” said Slank.

“The what?” said Pembridge.

“The aft binnacle,” said Slank. “As you ordered.”

“I did?” said Pembridge, squinting suspiciously. “When?”

“Just now, sir,” said Slank.

Pembridge blinked at Slank.

“Who are you, again?” he said.