A captain's word is her bond.
Despite this decision, my disposition was far from sanguine. Starkey had deliberately put me in a compromising position and forced my hand. The resulting flare of foul temper required an outlet. When I twisted away from my first mate, my regard fell upon the hapless Smee.
My roar would've done a dragon proud. "Mr. Smee!"
With a startled wail, Smee threw up his hands and staggered. The lantern crashed to the main deck, landed on its side, and rolled. The rotating beam of light cut through the darkness, glancing eerily over people and objects.
A snarl of irritation wedged in my throat. So help me, if Smee set fire to my ship, all bets were off. I'd strap him to an anchor and send him straight to Davy Jones's locker.
Smee windmilled his arms and tipped over. One of his fellows propped up his shoulders and saved him from the fall. Another sailor recovered the lamp and thrust it into the bo'sun's grip.
Smee clutched the lantern to his chest and straightened his crooked spectacles. He quaked and his voice quavered. "Yes, Captain?"
"Shall I reserve a seat on the dinghy for you?"
The bo'sun drew a sharp breath. As expected, he took immediate offense to the suggestion. Now, Mr. Smee and I disliked each other wholeheartedly. Likewise, no love was lost between the first mate and the bo'sun. Owning that, I would add this: Mr. Smee would never place his own well-being ahead of a child's. To suggest otherwise construed a grievous insult.
Smee swelled like a pufferfish. "Captain Hook, I'd like to be the first to volunteer to assist Dr. Chopp in the infirmary. In fact, I insist!"
"Well then, if you insist." I gave a modest tilt of my head to convey surprise, but Starkey overplayed his role. He twitched his ears and lashed his tail, whacking my back in the process. It took an act of self-discipline on my part not to take a swing at him.
"I do insist!" Smee pulled himself up to his full, though trifling height. He garnered cheers and props from the crew who rallied about him.
Right then and there, inspired by the Irishman's courage, three others volunteered to work in the infirmary. More importantly, no one else spoke of leaving. Not a single word. The thing had become an impossibility—deliberated on and rejected by the crew. If there had been a holdout, I suspect they'd have found themselves tossed unceremoniously overboard by their mates.
I leaned out over the railing and shouted orders, "Get to it, then! Speak to Dr. Chopp for your assignments. There's much to be done and no time to waste. If anyone assigned to the infirmary should set foot on deck, I'll have you shot and hung! Mr. Mullins, I want you manning the helm. Everyone else, report to your posts! We're sailing in pursuit of that schooner!"
The assembly broke up. Some scurried like mice, others proceeded at a more measured pace, but all obeyed. Revenge bustled with activity.
"That worked brilliantly. Exactly as we planned," Starkey said in a voice pitched for me alone.
"Not exactly. You went off script."
Starkey flattened his ears. "Not on purpose.... We knew boarding a potential plague ship wasn't going to go over well with the crew. It occurred to me no one would consider desertion or mutiny if we could swing Smee's support."
"It was a smart move," I conceded, though grudgingly. "You're lucky it didn't backfire. Next time warn me in advance."
"I would've, but the thought just popped into my head so I decided to roll with it..." Starkey appraised my scowl and chuckled. "I promise, I'll warn you next time."
"I believe you mean that," I said with a snort. The same as I trusted he would immediately forget his promise the next time a brilliant scheme crossed his path.
"The crew is united and Mr. Smee is out of the way," Starkey pointed out with a proud, conspiratorial gleam. No amount of lecturing on my part would've dampened his cheerfulness.
"True." Mr. Smee could be a caviling carper when events transpired with which he did not agree. If I'd attempted to send Smee to the infirmary, it'd have aroused his suspicions. This way, he'd not only gone willingly, he'd done so at his insistence. Now, Starkey and I were free to do what had to be done. After pondering, I added, "Have six armed sentries stationed outside the infirmary. If anyone asks, say they're there to protect the infirmary... and enforce the quarantine."
"Standard precautions?"
"Yes. When the time comes to board that schooner, make sure every last member of the crew has their ears plugged with wax, especially the boarding party."
"Aye, Captain." Starkey jerked his chin. As a boy and a man, he had experienced the compelling enchantment of Pan's voice many times. He understood how Peter mesmerized and mystified. Earplugs would protect the crew's hearing from more than cannon fire; it'd also shield them from Pan's hypnosis.
"You understand what's expected. That's all."
Starkey performed a quarter turn, but hesitated. "Shall I have Gun Captain Turnkey report to you for instructions?"
"No. We don't want to draw unnecessary attention. Pass the word along quietly. Turnkey is to have the ship's cannons prepped and on standby. Now cease your infernal lollygagging and get to work!"
"Aye!" Laughing, Starkey took himself off.
Bristling with anticipation, I made my way aft and ascended to the poop deck, or alternatively, the observation deck. It was the aftermost and the highest level of the ship and formed the roof over the navigation room.
From there, my voice rang out across the ship. "Run up the Black!"
With great enthusiasm, the crew took up the order and repeated it as a chorus, "Run up the Black!"
The flag had a white skull and crossbones on a black field. As common practice, pirate vessels intent on attack flew the Black, also known colloquially as the Jolly Roger. The banner inspired universal fear and respect, but it also held an implicit promise: surrender, and your lives will be spared. As a breed, pirates craved profit, and the best take came with the least effort. Murdering merchants served no useful purpose. If anything, it was rather like killing the goose that laid those golden eggs.
The Black was hoisted high and the crew cheered.
The hunt had commenced.
Chapter 4
"Full of vexation come I, with complaint."
~Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Through the course of the night, Revenge pursued our quarry. The trim schooner demonstrated such odd, inexplicable behavior. For a time she stayed her course, skimming the crested waves. Her square rig of crisp white sails billowed in the stiff wind. She gathered speed, increased her lead. Then, inexplicably, she tacked her sails and dumped her momentum. The gap narrowed. Three times we'd almost come within boarding range, but then she'd caught the wind again and dashed away. The erratic flip-flops complicated and dragged out the hunt.
The schooner mocked and taunted us—and our vexation mounted until Revenge roiled with the pent-up frustration of her captain and crew. The ship was a volcano of molten tension on the verge of eruption. They smelled blood and thirsted for a taste. For my part, the marrow in my bones ached. The quest to destroy Pan had informed my decisions for decades. My soul would never know peace until he was no more.
All night, I had maintained a constant vigil on the poop deck, observing the schooner through my spyglass. The crew came and went in shifts, but there I remained. Because I knew, due to conviction born of paranoia and prior experience, the moment I stepped off the deck, Peter Pan would escape. Given the many prior occasions when the eternal boy had slipped through my fingers, I refused to risk it. Not while the opportunity to finally bring our long feud to an end was within my grasp.
Dawn threatened—a faint halo on the horizon. Foreboding crushed my chest. Daylight would expose our presence and pursuit to the schooner. The anticipation and dread at the revelation ate at me. I fretted over the schooner escaping, and I second-guessed my conviction that Peter Pan was aboard her.
The current changed, and Eurus—the east wind—exhaled hard and blustery. I tugged down the brim of my cavalier hat,
turned up the collar of my jacket, and tucked my chin to my chest against the nippy bite.
"Mr. Mullins," I called down to the helmsman, "alter our course three points forward of the starboard beam."
"Aye, Captain." Charles Mullins turned the ship to her new heading. The second mate was a staid and steadfast man who was obsessed with details and order. He had a dark rosacea rash on his brow, nose, and cheeks. His ears were crooked, the left higher than the right. Paradoxically, he walked with a limp due to his right leg was shorter than its mate. The crew called him, affectionately, Charlie Cattywampus, because every pirate must have a colorful moniker...
Except those who don't.
Truly, Mullins lacked the imagination, daring, and panache necessary to become a pirate. I had brought him on board despite this because he was a skillful navigator and an impeccable bookkeeper. As a rule, Starkey slacked off on his recordkeeping, and on those rare occasions when he could be bothered to maintain something other than a star chart, his handwriting was near illegible. Mr. Mullins performed the first mate's duties and his own—maintaining the essential logs—willingly, without complaint, and so his post on Revenge was secure.
"Starkey," I began, canting to address him only to discover he was no longer where I'd thought. Confounded cat... I bit off a curse and expelled a thin sigh.
Through the long hours, Starkey had kept me company... at intervals. Sometimes he stood on deck at my side; often he hung in the shroud, close enough for us to converse. But then, without a word or warning, he wandered off, vanishing without a trace. Ten or twenty minutes, or perhaps an hour later, he reappeared, acting as though he'd never left.
A large blur caught the corner of my eye and I came close to ghosting out of my skin. Starkey dropped out of the rigging. He landed on all fours with a solid thump. I dropped the spyglass and my cutlass cleared its scabbard before I checked myself.
Starkey picked up the scope and offered it, exuding an air of innocence that I didn't buy for a second. "I believe you dropped this, Captain."
I sheathed the cutlass and snatched the spyglass from him. Lucky for him, a thorough examination revealed no damage to the instrument. To double check the internals, I aimed the long glass at the horizon and gazed through it.
Right then, the schooner banked into a tight turn to the starboard side, looping around in a yet another random maneuver—one of many—that seemed to serve no useful purpose.
"Mr. Mullins," I called out.
"Adjusting course to intercept!" Mullins replied and Revenge altered her heading yet again.
"Devil take you," I muttered, scowling at the meandering schooner. "You're not right in the head."
"Are you talking to me?" Starkey asked. "Captain is a bloody lunatic."
"No." I cast a sharp glance his way. "Are you addressing me?"
"No, Captain, of course not..." Starkey smirked and wriggled his ears. He did that a lot, whether to laugh or lie. It was his tell, and also the reason he never won at cards.
"Don't get smart with me. I'll cut your ears off."
"Aye, Captain." Starkey threw back his head and laughed harder. His ears beat like wings.
Without fail, strumpets found the quirk endearing and clutched him to their bosoms, whereas elves perceived mockery and took offense. David, for his part, had no awareness or control over those twitchy things, so I herded him away from elves toward more amiable companionship. Fortunately, we had no faeries on board, so it wasn't often a problem. Nor was it ever likely to be. I distrust and dislike faerie folk; pixies and merfolk being the notable exceptions.
With a hearty harrumph, I returned my attention to the schooner, now floundering against the current. Her captain's sanity remained in question, but one thing was crystal clear: the schooner's skipper was grossly incompetent.
"Maybe I was mistaken," Starkey said out of the blue.
"About what?"
He shook his head. "That ship's origin..."
Irritation needled me. "How could you be mistaken? Were you so sloshed that you suffered the hallucination of a ship falling out of the sky?"
Revenge's crew consumed spirits while on duty and off, especially ale and diluted wine. The alcohol purified and improved the taste of the water. I understood this, the same as I knew Starkey hadn't been inebriated when he sighted the schooner. For one, I'd have smelled booze on his breath, but the truth of his character was even simpler than that. David never over-indulged enough to compromise his wits.
Starkey stiffened at the implicit insult. "I wasn't drunk and I know what I saw. It fell out of the sky."
My bark had a bite. "What are you saying then?"
He ducked his head. "I mean only that we live in a world full of faeries and magic. Strange and peculiar things happen all the time. Maybe this is due to something else. Maybe it's not Peter Pan..."
I tapped my foot. I understood what he was trying to do. By taking the blame, Starkey was deftly able to suggest that perhaps I had been wrong... Without actually saying so. The proposal annoyed me more than it should have, because I'd wondered the same thing myself—entertained the terrible self-doubt. A peculiar upset coalesced in my chest: the bitter taste of bile rose in the back of my throat.
"Don't be a dunce," I snapped. "It's Peter."
It had to be Pan because I needed for it to be Pan.
"Of course, Captain. I was stupid to think otherwise." Starkey flattened his ears and lips together. Thereafter, the cat had his tongue.
We didn't speak of it again, but the conversation haunted me. Starkey was often flippant and always impulsive, but he was never stupid.... And I am often blinded by my obsession.
Less than an hour later, first light put any doubts to rest.
Dawn dribbled across the horizon, a gold and red smear—the broken yolk of a bloody egg. Morning heralded uneven, bucking surf. Revenge rocked, her decks rolled. I widened my stance for better stability.
Aboard the schooner, Peter Pan perched atop the railing of the sterncastle, a bright green splotch visible to the naked eye. Fury and loathing gathered like a storm, but I mastered and channeled the destructive energy.
Through the spyglass, I observed and performed a head count. Pan led a crew composed entirely of children. A lad of ten or so, clad in a nightcap and gown, manned the wheel. Three young boys clung to the rigging, but there was no sign of the delectable Tinker Bell.
Tink. The recollection of her delicate beauty struck me like a gut punch. A bitter brew of desire and distaste, anger and acrimony, flooded my soul. While the lovely faerie queen never dirtied her hands, she was complicit in the abduction and destruction of countless youths.
Revenge closed to a quarter mile.
"They still haven't seen us?" Starkey asked, sounding torn between amusement and disbelief.
"They have not." I clicked my tongue.
"That's an accomplishment." Starkey brought out his spyglass and aimed it at the schooner. After a delay, he said, "They don't appear to be ill."
"No, they do not." The visible lack of sickness gave me further cause for concern. The reason for the schooner's floundering state remained a mystery, and so I worried she might recover flight and escape.
Starkey snorted. "Ariel. Now there's a novel name."
"It suits her. That fine ship is meant to be a clipper. A shame she'd been kept from fulfilling her potential."
"She's not a clipper, Captain?" He looked askance at me.
"All sailors know three things make a clipper." I lowered the glass and savored the twist of irritation that crossed his face. The chit-chat provided a welcome distraction from the tension. "First, a clipper's lines are sharp and built for speed. Second, she's tall-sparred and carries the utmost spread of canvas."
"Aye, Ariel's all that." Starkey breathed out a wistful gust. He sounded far and away. That tone fanned the embers of my misgivings. An icy trickle of fear flowed through my veins.
I'd seen that look on a man's face before. John Rackham, my former second mate, had ca
ught the fever of unrealized ambitions. He'd grown restless, and eventually he'd departed Revenge to pursue his goals. Now I suspected Starkey had the same yearning. He was daydreaming about capturing Ariel... and becoming her commander. Such ambition was unsurprising and perhaps inevitable... Sooner or later, all first mates entertained notions of ascending to captaincy.
Whether Starkey meant to step over my corpse to get there... that was the thing to watch out for. And the moment the unworthy thought crossed my mind, I sickened with shame. Paranoia was an ugly thing.
As a distraction, I crafted an impulsive diversion and asked, "Do you know what's keeping her from being a clipper, David? The thing that's lacking?"
Starkey jerked his face toward me. His cat's pupils dilated and he stared with unblinking regard. After a pondering delay, he said, "No, I don't."
I studied Ariel's lines through the spyglass. "A vessel worthy of being named a clipper must use her sails, day and night, fair weather and foul."
He swallowed. "You're saying a ship's captain 'n' crew are every bit as important as the vessel herself."
"That's exactly what I mean."
"Aye," Starkey rolled out the lusty note. "You're right. But she could be a clipper."
"Ariel's a pretty ship, I'll grant you. She's not a pirate captain's vessel, Starkey," I said, taking a harsher tone than was warranted.
Starkey cocked his head and stared. "I know."
You deserve better. I thought it but didn't say the words. I should have. With absolute and utter certainty, I knew Starkey would make an excellent master and commander.
"You can't blame a man for dreaming..." Starkey bared his teeth. A second later, he narrowed his eyes.
I expected him to ask, "Can you?"
He didn't and so I stayed damnably silent. For the official record... No. I never begrudged David his dreams, only feared losing my trusted first mate and friend.
I'd have given him a hand up...
If only he'd asked.
Hook: Dead to Rights (Captain Hook and the Pirates of Neverland Book 1) Page 3
