"As you were, Mr. Smee," I responded.
"Aye, Captain," Mr. Smee said, heaving a loud sigh.
Starkey snickered and pitched his voice for my ears alone. "How that man ever became a pirate is beyond me."
"You know how," I snapped, flushed with irritation. Of course I agreed, but wouldn't say so aloud, not where I might be overheard.
Mr. Smee lacked the mental toughness and the physical robustness necessary for the buccaneer career, and I would have long ago insisted he retired... if circumstances had differed. As things stood, however, the Irish bo'sun was a valuable member of the crew. I needed Mr. Smee's expertise, not only with the care of lines and rigging, but in the stewardship of children who invariably adored him. So he stayed, secure in his post.
Starkey stalked across the deck toward the starboard. Without pause, he swarmed up the ratlines into the rigging. He navigated the canopy in lithe leaps and bounds, always fearless, cat-confident in his dexterity. I seized a rope and ascended the shroud, though with far less grace and speed.
The first mate arrived at the mizzenmast first. He clung to it, the claws of his four paws sunk deep in the wood. Starkey wore a loose-fitting linen shirt and breeches without boots. His tail lashed behind him, a whip without a crack. The short, thick fur that covered his body stood on end and his muscles bunched when he gathered his strength. He sprang, kicking off backward, and soared.
The leap launched him in a high arc through the span between the sails. Mid-flight, he performed a one-eighty turn. He caught the main mast with all fours, gouging a spray of splinters with his claws. He exemplified poetry in motion.
"Show off," I muttered and grinned. I freed a line and swung over to the main mast, and then climbed to join him in the crow's nest. Perhaps I arrived slower, but I got there eventually and in one piece.
When I swung my leg over the rim of the basket, a sharp snap came from the floor. I glanced down and discovered the end of a broken ruler protruding from beneath my boot. Scattered charts and navigational aids littered the platform, including a compass and a sandglass. I nudged the clutter aside to avoid causing further damage. Chaos was intrinsic to David's nature—the same way he adored napping and boxes.
Starkey preferred a nocturnal schedule—he took First Watch and Middle Watch (back to back), and held his vigil in the rigging. He sketched star charts at night, oceanscapes by daylight, and always kept the nub of a pencil tucked in his pocket. On a braided hemp cord, he wore a gold brooch: a pair of scrolled lilies framing an oval tiger's eye. The pendant sat at the base of his throat; its gold and brown hues blended into his plush fur.
"Show me this ship," I said, facing out into the velvet night. That evening, the stars were few and far away, little more than faint orange flickers in the sky. Many bright and wandering moons lurked hidden behind the veil.
Starkey raised his arm and pointed. "There, Captain. Off the starboard bow."
"I see it."
On a dark sea, the lights of a vessel shone like a beacon. Indeed, it would have been impossible to miss. That ship of fools had a dozen lanterns or more lit up despite this being one of the murkiest nights of the month.
As if scary things didn't lurk in the dark.
"We're too far out to be certain, but based on her profile, she's small and swift. We'll have to sneak up on her," I said.
Starkey flashed feline fangs, aglow with the excitement of the hunt. "I've ordered all unnecessary lighting doused and the rest dimmed. It'll lessen the chance we'll be spotted."
"Good work," I said and signed simultaneously.
Until then, our conversation had involved a combination of speech and British Sign Language, which I'd known since childhood. I'd met Starkey shortly after Peter Pan brought me to Neverland, and David and I had forged an immediate bond. I'd taught him to sign, and later, reading and writing. He'd trained me in hand-to-hand combat, tracking, and trap building. We'd made a deadly team right from the start. Stealth and unspoken communication had given us a definitive advantage in the island's competitive—and often lethal—games. Years later, the entire crew of Revenge understood and utilized sign language on a regular basis. Among pirates, hearing impairment was a common condition resulting from the deafening explosions of cannon fire. Of course, the crew always plugged their ears with wax, but damage to the delicate inner ear was cumulative and inevitable.
The other ship was too far away to discern any clear details, so I dug out my brass spyglass, designed for one-handed use. It had been a gift from a former lover, and counted among my most valued possessions. Through its lens, I appraised our quarry across the nautical miles separating the two vessels.
My initial assessment proved accurate. The sleek schooner was fifty-three-feet long, ten at her beam. Sharp lines built for speed and three tall-sparred masts, rather than the two common to a vessel of her class. She would be swift, but have small cargo holds. Assuming her crew to be minimally competent, I estimated the vessel capable of achieving a staggering top speed of eighteen knots. In comparison, Revenge averaged seven to eight knots; a maximum of ten, but only when conditions were optimal.
Starkey lingered at my side. He always understood and respected my need for silence, a quality I valued in a companion. Like me, David appeared to be in his mid-twenties and had for decades. In our youths, Starkey and I had both been touched and transformed by faerie magic—though in different ways—into something other than fully human. We'd grown up, but we hadn't grown old. In the very beginning, it hadn't been apparent, but as the years wore on, and those around us grew grayer and frailer, the truth became undeniable. It'd become yet another tie binding us together, however, we stayed together through choice. Starkey had followed me throughout our tumultuous youth and the ensuing years, though I never fully understood why. His loyalty didn't come easy or without question. He challenged me at every turn, but he'd proved true when it counted.
I tucked the scope into the pouch on my belt, and slid a sidelong glance toward the first mate. "That ship is too far out to make out any of her crew, even through the spyglass."
A question begged the asking: what had led Starkey to conclude Peter Pan was aboard the schooner? Put bluntly, what use would the flying boy have for a ship? The immediate and obvious answer left me feeling ill. Vessels were used to transport cargo and people. Pan had no use for freight, but he often ferried abducted children from the Otherworld to Neverland.
"That's so." Starkey caught my gaze and grinned, flashing gleaming sharp incisors. His boldness confirmed my suspicions. He wanted me to make inquiries, but he knew I wouldn't until I'd exhausted every avenue to attaining the solution on my own.
The minutes ticked past while I considered. At last, I asked, "Was the splash impressive?"
"The splash?" Starkey parroted, but disappointment crossed his face. An ah-ha blaze of inspiration rushed through me.
"When Pan's ship fell out of the sky. Was the splash impressive?"
Starkey's ears drooped, giving him away. Poor fellow, his poker face was nonexistent. He sighed and swung his hand. "The wave was tremendous. How did you know?"
I allowed myself a small smile. It'd proven to be an evening filled with delightful surprises. Maybe, just maybe, the fickle tides of fate had finally turned in my favor. "Intuition, David. It's why I'm captain, and you're first mate."
David snorted, and I chuckled.
"Where Peter goes, Tinker Bell follows, leaving a shimmering trail of pixie dust. That vessel is overly bright, even for having every lantern on board lit. It's sitting dead in the water, sails flaccid. There's only one possible reason for Pan to be stranded on a flightless vessel."
"What's that, Captain?" David asked, breathless with awe.
"Unhappy children, Mr. Starkey. Unhappy children."
Chapter 3
We Are Pirates
"All hands on deck!" The midnight call spread through the ship in hisses and whispers. Pirates rolled from their bunks and swarmed onto the deck. In accordance with the
tenets of stealth, lighting was kept to a bare minimum. We gathered, furtive figures, thieves in the night.
Although neither Starkey nor I had announced the reason for the meeting, somehow the crew knew anyway. A spark of gossip lit a wildfire that burned through Revenge—across the decks, upward into the rigging, and downward through the hold, penetrating every nook and cranny.
"We're hunting Peter Pan," the crew hissed. "The captain has the scent. Blood in the water. Blood in the water. We're heading into battle."
The fo'c'sle—located at the front of the ship, behind the bowsprit—provided the dais from which I reigned. I stood against the railing, the foremast behind me, and surveyed the crew gathered down on the main deck. Starkey flanked me to the left, mirroring my stance. The first mate had the reflexes down, and certainly the experience to stand the title of master and commander of his own vessel. He only lacked confidence... or perhaps it was motivation. Time would tell whether his ambition proved equal to his innate talent.
Restlessness marked Revenge's mood. Starkey and I weren't the only ones on board that nurtured a long-drawn grudge against Pan: several members of the company were former Lost Boys. The men and women had the mood of an unruly mob. They produced quite the brouhaha—dissension and shoving—anger roiling on the verge of boiling over. Make no mistake, however, this crew might appear boisterous and undisciplined, but they were also veteran sailors and soldiers. Revenge's crew had the hearts and souls of lions: the fiercest and most ferocious buccaneers in Neverland.
Under my stern regard, their agitation was doused. A hush crashed over their number with the unexpectedness of a white squall. Despite the quiet, I stayed my tongue until the pin-ping silence blanketed the ship. The crew held their bated breath as one united body.
"As many of you already suspect, I believe Peter Pan is aboard the brightly glowing schooner on the horizon," I said. "Mr. Starkey observed its precipitous descent from the clouds approximately a half hour ago. There is one reason and one alone for Pan to have commandeered a ship: he's using it to ferry abducted children from the Otherworld to Neverland."
An uneasy murmur rife with speculation murmur swept through the crew. I paused while it ran its course. From their expressions, many wanted to make inquiries, but of course, it was Mr. Smee who possessed the temerity.
"Your pardon, Captain Hook!" Smee thrust his hand skyward as though he was a school-age lad. Contrary to the core, Mr. Smee carried a bullseye lantern, the lens turned toward him. Of all the crew, he alone stood in a pool of light. Naturally, he didn't wait for permission to proceed. "But why do you suppose the schooner fell?" he asked. "From the clouds, you say?"
At my side, Starkey shifted. We traded a glance, he and I, and arrived at an unspoken agreement that he should take the helm. Coming from him, the tale we were about to tell had a better chance of being accepted without question. Put bluntly, Starkey was the infinitely superior fast-talker.
Starkey is tigerwood: exotic, beautiful, and strong. If Revenge were a tree, he dwelled in the heartwood. Where the crew feared me, they shared a rapport with David. He was well liked—one might even say beloved—and respected. If any officer could ever replace me as captain, it would be him.
Starkey drawled, "Everyone already knows this so I shouldn't have to say it, but Beaver's got a memory like a sieve—"
"Hey! Not my fault I caught a cannon ball in the head!" Beaver protested and the crew rained down catcalls and coarse chuckles. Now, Beaver happened to be one of those former Lost Boys I mentioned. As a child, he'd made an unfortunate choice in his animal-hide costume; he had the buckteeth and flat tail to prove it.
"Is so your fault! I warned you to duck!" Cairstine Wright, my chief engineer, slapped Beaver on the back, sending him stumbling, and the others cackled like jackals.
Starkey joined them, cultivating their camaraderie in a way I could never match, only envy. Quicksilver, his demeanor grew stern. His intent tiger-stare intimidated them into silence again.
He continued, "For that ship to fly, it'd require two things: pixie dust and happy children. The schooner has the glow of pixie dust, which has led the captain and I to conclude that unhappy children are the reason she can't fly."
"This is terrible! Why are those children unhappy?" Smee wore a terrible frown at the very thought of those poor, unfortunate souls. The bo'sun waved his chubby arm so the folds of flab jiggled.
Irritation prickled my skin. It probably never crossed Smee's mind to be grateful for our good fortune. For us pirates—and would-be saviors of the Lost Boys—this supposed ship of sorrows provided a golden opportunity to snatch those children from Peter's clutches. I parted my lips to issue a reprimand, but Starkey caught my elbow. He squeezed ever so gently. The subtle intrusion brought me to my senses.
"Illness, no doubt," I grated from between clenched teeth.
Smee rounded his expression—eyes and mouth. "Illness?" he parroted. "What sort of illness?"
Ah, but am I a wretch? I derived no small pleasure from Smee's distress. If anything, his agitation inspired a certain sadistic satisfaction. "Quite possibly a plague or a pox. It seems unlikely one sick child would be enough to bring down the entire ship."
"A pox!" Mr. Smee paled. Fright crossed his face, but not a hint of doubt. He accepted the explanation without question.
The beauty of our contrived cover story resided in its plausibility. It may very well have been the truth. The fact was, Starkey and I had no way of knowing one way or the other. What mattered, though, was convincing Mr. Smee—and the rest of the crew—that we believed wholeheartedly that the schooner was a plague ship.
Tension coiled tightly. The crew hardly said anything but the muffled din bore an ominous tone. Their movements were executed with a certain stiff rigidity. There were few things pirates feared. A virulent sickness, capable of infecting an entire crew who lived and worked in close quarters, however, could provoke dread in even the most hardened seaman.
My hook settled over the round top of the railing. I leaned out to address the company. "In the past, we've pursued Peter Pan at great peril to life and limb. It should come as no surprise to you that I intend to board that ship and rescue those children regardless of the risks. Dr. Chopp..."
"Here, Captain!" Beverly Chopp called out from the quarter deck. The ship's surgeon was a forbidding, steel-haired German woman built like a cannon barrel. When aroused, the force of her temper had an artillery blazing blast. She owned a daunting array of instruments: tools for piercing and puncturing, honed blades, and hefty saws... The mounted collection took up the entire bulkhead of the ship's sickbay.
"The ship's infirmary is too small and centralized," I said. "You'll need to prepare an emergency triage center. We'll set up the secondary infirmary in an isolated section of the cargo hold."
"I shall oversee it." Dr. Chopp dropped her chin.
"The sick youngsters will be brought directly to you and kept under strict quarantine to minimize the chance of the illness spreading," I said to the doctor. "To contain the sickness, we'll have to establish and maintain strict isolation. No one will be allowed to enter or leave the infirmary until I rescind the quarantine."
"Very good," she said. "I'll need assistants to act as caretakers."
"We'll find volunteers." I scanned the grim figures of my crew. Their stances were stiff and straight—corpses in the coffin. They were scared. Good. We wanted—needed—them to be wary. It'd keep them alert and obedient, less likely to slack off or challenge an order.
Starkey stepped neatly into the opening in the conversation. "This is a deadly, dangerous undertaking involving a virulent, highly communicable disease. The captain and I have discussed this at length."
My brow rose. We'd done no such thing. The first mate had gone completely off script with his current grandstanding. I hoped he knew what he was doing. I trusted Starkey enough to stand back and let him run with it.
"Therefore, this mission is voluntary," Starkey continued. "Anyone who wishe
s no part in it may leave. We'll prepare the dinghy with enough food and water to last for a week. From our present position, Vega's Cay is a two-day voyage. Rackham's Cay is three. The captain and I both pledge on our honor there'll be no retribution taken."
The ensuing silence was startlingly loud. Shadows cloaked the crew, who remained as still as the wooden backdrops used in theater houses. Silhouettes: shapes without substance. Any buccaneer that refused to participate in a raid on an unarmed vessel or abandoned a ship that wasn't sinking wasn't worth his salt. His or her reputation would be ruined—forever branded craven. No captain would take on a coward or a quitter. Even without being able to see their faces, I knew my people well enough to gauge their reactions. They were thoroughly insulted—and shocked.
I was shocked. How dare the first mate bandy about my word, making promises I'd never agreed to uphold? A low hiss forced its way through my clenched teeth. "Starkey..."
He pivoted on his rear paw to face me. Our gazes locked. Starkey and I had been together so long we shared an exceptional rapport. He often knew—or accurately assumed—what I was thinking. I only wished his motivations were half as discernable. His gaze sparkled with mirth and curiosity. That consideration turned into a duel of wills—and a wordless exchange.
What are you up to, David?
He smirked and shrugged. Wait and see.
I glared. I'll skin you alive and use your hide for a rug.
His grin widened. I know what I'm doing. Trust me.
Did I? Trust him with my reputation? Now there was a real clincher. I put that very question to myself, and the debate lasted longer than expected. Not less than a heartbeat, but no more than two. Of course I did. And even if his gambit should fail and the entire crew deserted, I'd honor any promises Starkey made on my behalf.
Hook: Dead to Rights (Captain Hook and the Pirates of Neverland Book 1) Page 2
