The Dagger X (The Dagger Chronicles) (26 page)

I
t was some hours later when Tom brought Duck his last supply of bacon wrapped up in a cloth. The
Blessed William
had dropped its anchor in the bay and had finally been granted space along the quay for the unloading of boats.

“Here’s the last I can give you now. Save some of it.”

“But it tastes best when it’s fresh,” Duck said.

Tom gathered up the hammock to erase any sign of the hidden encampment he had made for the boy and his monkey.

“Get yourself to the barrel, boy. It ain’t but a few minutes now.” Duck did as told. He and Julius scowled in the darkness.

Tom was right. They had squatted in the barrel just long enough to settle into a midafternoon nap when Duck was awakened by the sound of boots tromping down the stairs into the hold.

“These ’uns over here first,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“Aye, aye, sir,” came the answer. Duck recognized the second voice as Tom’s.

A moment later he and Julius were being lifted into the air. Duck had braced an arm on the opposite side of the barrel so as not to be tossed about, but Julius was startled by the movement and gave out a small shriek.

Duck heard a man coughing loudly just inches above their head.

“That’s a devil of a cold you have there, Tom,” said a new voice off to the side. “Sounds like something crawled down your throat and died.”

“Aye, a strangled monkey. Feels that way as well,” Tom’s voice said. “Some fresh vittles will do me right before we set sail again.”

Duck stifled a giggle. “Good ol’ Tom,” he whispered to Julius.

In a moment they were on the upper deck. Duck knew it from the tiny tendrils of light that poked through the edges of the lid above him. He reached up to tug at the block Kitto had attached to the lid to help him secure it from the inside.

Soon the barrel was gently set upon the deck. A hand slapped twice on the lid.

“Good-bye, barrel,” Tom said. Duck heard his footsteps recede.

“Good-bye, Tom,” Duck said. He patted at Julius’s head, and the monkey curled into his lap. “Really quiet now, okay?” In a few moments the voices of two men were above them, neither of them Tom’s.

“Room enough for this one.”

“Aye, lend a hand then.” Duck braced himself in
time, and then he and Julius were being lifted again.

“Hardly nothing in this one!”

“True enough.” The barrel was set down sharply and Duck rapped the back of his head on the stave behind him.

“Ow!” he said, then clamped down on Julius’s head as if the monkey’s mouth were the guilty party.

“What’s that then, Jim?”

“What’s what?

“What you said?”

“Din’t say nothing, you madman.”

A voice from far off rang out. It was Tom. “Might you ladies speed things up a bit, eh? Plenty more barrels down here to clear out, ain’t there.”

Good ol’ Tom.

There was more movement that Duck could not discern, and then he could feel a rising sensation again as the pallet of barrels was hoisted by block and tackle over the port rail and lowered to the awaiting jolly boat below.

“Soon, Julius,” Duck said. “Soon we’re on land again, and then we make for that church.” Duck bit his lip. “What
was
the name of that church again?” Julius did not tell him the answer.

There was some more heaving and jostling at the boat. Duck and Julius were turned on their sides so that Julius rested on Duck’s belly, and Duck lay on his back.

“Right comfy,” Duck said. “Must be in the boat now.” He could tell by the rolling sensation.

Shortly thereafter the sound of oars creaking in their
locks reached their ears. “Can’t wait to be on land.”

There were no voices this time, but after a few minutes Duck could hear a great commotion off in the distance: the bustle and chaos of Custom Quay, Port Royal, the busiest English port in the New World.

Thunk!
The rowboat suddenly struck something hard. Duck and Julius were pitched to the far side of the barrel, only now the barrel was spinning, rolling. Duck gasped at the sudden feeling of weightlessness.

Splash!

“Oh! Oh, Julius! Oh!”

Duck and Julius’s barrel had fallen into the sea. Water streamed inside, seeping in through the lid. Julius let out a high-pitched scream. Duck reached up for the block at the lid to hold it tighter, but they were still spinning, and the two of them were tossed about. More water rushed in. Duck could barely hear over his own panic the sound of many voices, a great harangue of angry oaths.

“Well, get it then, you blackguard!”

“Shut your hole, you!”

“Come and shut it then!”

Something hard thumped down on the spinning barrel once, twice. Now they were spinning faster. Julius screeched again, so loud inside the barrel that Duck thought his head might explode.

“Shut it, Julius! Shut your bloody monkey mouth!” Duck screamed back. There were now several inches of water in the barrel, and with the next revolution of the churning cylinder, Duck got a mouthful of seawater. He
choked and sputtered. Julius caterwauled, infuriated by the dousing.

“What the devil is inside that thing, man!” yelled one man.

“Something alive, for God’s sake!” said another, and then the spinning stopped and Duck and Julius were heaved up and out of the water.

“Get it up there and off my boat!” Again they were pitched in the barrel and Duck gulped a fresh mouthful. Julius squealed in torment and scratched his monkey claws against the lid.

Duck felt himself being lifted through the air, and then there was a tremendous crash as the barrel was dropped down onto the pier. He landed on his back, knocking the wind from him. Julius got the better end of the transaction and was laid out across Duck’s face, his bared claws digging into Duck’s ears and chin. At the same moment the barrel lid jettisoned off and rolled down the wooden pier several feet before dropping off the far edge. Seawater gushed out, staining dark the planks of the pier.

For a moment there was a deathly quiet all around them. Duck disentangled Julius from his face and was instantly blinded, so bright the light did seem. Were he able to look out he would have seen—several feet away—a small crowd of sailors hunched over and peering intently, trying to see into the dark barrel.

“What the devil is that?” one man said.

“You imbeciles!” A voice shouted from a distance down the pier. “Clear that barrel or I’ll have your backs striped!”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s something in it,” one of the gathered men said.

“Of course there is something in it, you dolt! Why do you think it’s being transferred ashore. Now clear that barrel!”

“Something alive, sir,” another man said. Duck craned his head back and covered his eyes with his hands, allowing just a sliver of a crack between fingers through which to peer. He looked—upside down from his vantage—at the assorted sailors several feet away. In the distance behind them, he could see the familiar commotion of a busy quay.

“Alive! What in the name of God . . . ,” said the imperious voice farther up the pier. Heavy boot-heeled steps rang out.

“Have it to light, then!”

Suddenly the barrel was hoisted again, tipped toward its open end. Duck and Julius came tumbling out, Duck landing squarely on his head. He let out a howl, and Julius screamed anew.

A huge eruption of laughter resounded all around them. Duck righted to a squatting position, Julius on the planks next to him. Duck clamped one hand over his eyes, the other atop his aching head.

“Why you little urchin!” fumed a voice—quite close now—and Duck screamed out when the officer snatched him by his ear and yanked him to his feet.

“O
w! That hurts! It hurts! Stop it!” Duck swung out with his fists, eyes still closed. The infuriated officer boxed at Duck’s ears viciously and Duck cried out in pain. The gathered men grumbled in disapproval.

“Leave the boy alone!” a distant voice yelled. Others joined in agreement, but still the man clung to Duck, and still the boy swung away.

“I’ll teach you to strike an officer of the marines, young man!” the voice hissed. Duck opened his eyes now despite the glare. He saw a sea of red that was the man’s jacket, adorned with shiny brass buttons, and white trousers.

Now, Duck was no stranger to a fight, particularly with those who outweighed him, and he knew what every young boy learns at some point about the weaknesses of older boys and men. Duck reared back with his foot and delivered a sharp kick to the man’s groin.

Instantly the man stepped back with a grunt, hunched over slightly at the midsection. Guffaws and chuckles sang out from the onlookers down the pier.

“That’ll teach you!” Duck shouted—much to the delight of the onlookers—and he snatched Julius from the planks. Duck turned away and ran in the only direction he could, which was directly at the gathering of stunned and laughing seamen.

“Stop him!” hissed the officer.

Duck barreled straight for the middle of the pack, where stood a large man, his stance wide and his arms at the ready. When the man reached out his huge hands at Duck and Julius, Duck dove straight through his legs. He scrambled up again, but hands were upon him, grabbing him by either arm. Julius was launched through the air.

Duck felt hands lift him off the ground. He kicked and wiggled wildly.

“Easy, lad! Simmer down!”

Julius let out his most blood-curdling screech yet and threw himself at one of the men holding Duck. The sailor let out an anguished howl when Julius sank his teeth into the flesh of his hand, allowing Duck to wiggle free for a moment, only to be seized anew by another sailor. Julius leaped to this man now, gouging at his eyes, then leaping to another nearby to do the same.

The sailors—stunned by the monkey’s violent ferocity—stepped back for a moment. Duck shot through a gap between two of them, Julius hot on his heels.

“Don’t let him get away!” shouted the marine. “Stop that boy!”

Duck turned back.

“Come on!” he said, and Julius leaped from the planks and into his arms. Just behind him the group of sailors had regained their courage and began to give chase. One of them wielded a nasty looking cudgel in one hand.

Duck ran. He ran for his life, his eyes blinded by both sunlight and tears. The thunder of the men’s footsteps rang out behind him.

The Custom House was located just beyond the end of the pier, but the typical bustle of activity seemed to stop for a moment. Hundreds of eyes had turned to watch the little monkey-bearing boy sprint down the pier, pursued hotly by a motley mob of angry sailors, a few of them streaming blood. Bemused merchantmen stopped their negotiations to watch; stock clerks pushed one another aside for a better view; and every naval officer barked out commands that no one seemed to hear.

“Belay that little piker!”

“Leave him be. He’s just a boy!”

Duck was a fast one, but not so fast as a grown man, and it looked to the crowd as if the boy would be snatched up just as he reached the cobblestone quay. The only visitor to the quay at that moment who was entirely oblivious to Duck’s flight was a porter who hurried his horse along the cobbled roadway. The wagon trailing behind him was empty; he had made his delivery late and he knew he had to hurry back to his handler or face withering contempt. Pleasantly surprised to see the roadway clear, the porter lashed at the horse to hurry through.

Duck’s feet hit the cobblestones the moment the wagon passed in front of him. He could not wait; the men would be upon him in an instant. Tucking Julius into the crook of one arm, Duck launched himself into the air. Julius screamed.

The sidewall of the wagon caught Duck across the ribs, but his momentum threw him up and over its lip and into the wagon in a heap. The men were shouting behind him, hailing the porter to stop his wagon, but the porter ignored them, whipping his horse to a gallop. Duck wrestled his way to his feet. He stood upon the pile of barrel staves—of all things—and looked back toward the retreating quay. A cheer rang up from the assembled crowd there, curiously thrilled to see a little boy outrace a handful of grown seamen.