“But Jim, how…?”
“It’s Christmas, Lacey. It was magic.” Then Lacey leapt up and squeezed Jim around the neck. In a moment, the three Ratts were squeezing as well, until the five of them were one big, twisty pile of arms and tattered coats, spinning around in a circle in the light of the orange coals.
“I’m sorry, Lacey,” George said. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a brat.”
“Oh, Happy Christmas, George!” Lacey said, and the hugging went on for quite some time. In the midst of it all, a thought lit upon Jim’s mind as soft as a snowflake on his tongue. Even if he failed to gain back his box, and even if he failed to find his father’s treasure and pay back those fiends the Cromiers and his treacherous aunt, something in the back of Jim’s mind told him his life could still somehow turn out for the better. As long as he kept these new friends, his best friends, close, anything was possible.
TWENTY–THREE
he sun rose, glaring brightly off a thick blanket of freshly fallen snow, covering the roofs and streets of London like frosting on a cake. It was now January, and Constable Edmund Butterstreet arrived to his office, sporting his cleaned and ironed uniform, rapping the shingle above his head that read “King’s Men,” the snow on the shingle cascading over him like his own personal snow shower. The constable smiled to himself, whistling the tune to his favorite Christmas carol.
Despite the harsh cold, winter was Butterstreet’s favorite times of year, mostly because of Christmas and New Year, the constable being one of those types that somehow managed to keep his holiday spirit deep into February, when most had long since abandoned it, hoping only for the warmth of spring. But Butterstreet so loved the Christmas services and the choirs, the foods and the gifts, that he remembered them most of the year until the next Christmas, trying to spread a bit of holiday cheer to all he knew, even the criminals.
“Good morning, Thomas,” Butterstreet said to the deputy at the desk as he walked into the office.
“Morning, constable!” Thomas replied as he warmed his hands by the coal stove. “Hope you’re ready to start early today, sir, you have a visitor waiting for you in your office.”
“A visitor? This early and in this kind of weather? Now what could this be about?” The big constable stepped into his office and, as Thomas said, found his visitor waiting for him. He was a pale man, tall, with raven-black hair tied into a tail, wearing the uniform of a captain of his majesty’s navy, a sword on his side and standing at the window, staring into the snow with cold blue eyes. After a moment, Butterstreet recognized him from some rather unpleasant business some months ago.
“Ah, Captain Cromier, is it?” Butterstreet said merrily, holding out his hand to shake Cromier’s. Bartholomew turned and, ignoring the offered hand, instead went and sat down behind Butterstreet’s own desk. Now, this might have infuriated many men and led to some sort of argument, but Butterstreet was a man of common birth himself who was used to the way of things. Besides, it was still the Christmas season as far as Butterstreet was concerned and there was no use in letting an arrogant nobleman ruin his spirits. “Well, good morning, sire and welcome to our little office.”
“Good? Hardly,” Cromier sneered, quickly assessing the quaint office with its unvarnished wooden furniture and plain walls. “I’m going to get straight to the point Betterstraight.”
“Butterstreet, sire,” Butterstreet said politely, but as with his handshake, this was ignored.
“I have a serious problem that requires your full attention.”
“It is my duty to mind this city from this office to the docks on the Thames, captain,” Butterstreet replied. “How may I be of service to his majesty’s navy?”
“There is a dangerous pirate of the seas in our fair city, Bitterstraught,” Bartholomew said, standing once again and strutting about the office. “He is a scourge of the Channel and the Atlantic, but he has made the mistake of wintering in London for a time and was spotted heading this way some weeks ago. In fact, he may already be here now.”
“And which pirate may this be that I’m looking for, captain?”
Bartholomew set his jaw and said the name with a dramatic turn: “Captain Dread Steele.” Unfortunately, he finished his flourish only to find Butterstreet erupting with laughter.
“Captain Steele? The Dread Steele?” Butterstreet held his big sides as his rumbling laughter filled the entire office. Even Thomas in the front office smiled when he heard the thunderous roar. “Oh, forgive me sire, but I think you’d have better luck catching old Father Noel handing out sticks and coal to the gangs of thieving children I chase than catching that one!”
Bartholomew’s alabaster cheeks pinked fiercely, and he tapped his index finger on the pommel of his sword. But then he pulled his jacket straight, swallowed some of his enormous pride, and spoke through gritted teeth. “And why is that…do you say?”
“Captain Steele comes in and out of London as he pleases, captain.” Butterstreet ceased his laughing, a serious look blooming in his merry eyes. His voice lowered as though what he was about to say should not be spoken too loudly. “Oh, he’s a crook all right, and a buccaneer, but he’s a charmer, that one is, and a master of disguise to boot. I’ve heard he can appear as nearly the likeness of any person he desires, and sound like them too. Some even say he does this through powers of the black arts, and that he has wizards, witches, and talking animals for allies. Even the great Captain Lindsay Morgan, God rest him, couldn’t catch Dread Steele noways. Gawd, I may have arrested the man once before, thinking him a regular thief and then let him go the next week.”
“Nevertheless,” Bartholomew said, the lines around his lips tightening. “There will be rumors of his comings and goings, whispers floating about the criminal underworld of this city. I suppose you can pick up pieces of that, at least, can’t you?” Bartholomew’s tone was as demeaning as possible, and he made his way toward the door, angry as he could be with the inefficiency of this particular constable. But Butterstreet simply smiled again.
“Oh now that I can do, sir,” Butterstreet said with a nod. “I’m sure all the gangs from the Clawed Rabbits - a real nasty crew of Irish toughs - all the way down to the litt’luns like the Brothers Ratt and their new friend Jim Morgan will hear something about the arrival of the great Captain Steele to our shores.”
Bartholomew froze at the door to the office, standing as still as a horrible, ghoulish statue for a long moment, before slowly turning his head back to the constable. “What did you just say?”
“Oh, I was just commenting on how all the criminals will have heard something about the arrival of Captain Steele. Just won’t be all trustworthy that’s all—”
“No, no, no!” Bartholomew stepped slowly back into the office, sticking his hook-nosed face and piercing blue eyes right up under Butterstreet’s droopy mustache. “Who did you just say?”
“Why the Brothers Ratt, sire, and their new member, a lad by the name of Jim Morgan. Newcomer to the game, really. A fair-looking boy to be honest. I would say at first blush that he bears the appearance of a nobleman’s son, by the cut of his hair and the look in his eyes, but he can’t be, not running about with the like of the Ratts - they’re as common as I am, captain.”
Bartholomew stared into Butterstreet’s face for a long moment, his blue eyes wide and watery from a sudden lack of blinking. He finally turned away from constable and walked back toward the window, mumbling to himself. “It’s unlikely - a long shot…” Butterstreet furrowed his brow, straining his ears for a better listen to the captain’s soft words. “… one in a thousand, a prayer really, and how I abhor praying — but could it be?”
“Do you know this boy?” Butterstreet asked, no longer smiling, and staring intently at the dark-haired captain’s reflection in the window. The constable knew the looks in men’s eyes, and what they meant. And he didn’t like the hungry glare in Bartholomew Cromier’s unnerving blue eyes, no, not one bit.
“This boy, this … Jim,” Bartholom
ew said slowly. “He stole something from a good friend of mine. Something important.”
“Well, they are rather good picks of the old pocket if you know what I mean, captain.”
“I need you to find this boy, Butterstreet,” said Cromier, and the constable did not miss the fact that Bartholomew had finally gotten his name right. “And when you arrest him, I want him held here until I am notified. I will deal with the boy personally. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sire,” said Butterstreet, nodding slowly. “And as for the pirate?”
“I will remain in London until we find both of these criminals, and I will see to their fates in person.” With that, Captain Bartholomew Cromier marched out of the office with his head held high and his shoulders back, as though he had just been promoted to captain all over again.
Butterstreet watched him go and worriedly shook his head. He would do what the young captain asked (he would lose his job or worse if he didn’t), but Butterstreet was more than a little disinclined to enjoy following these particular orders, much more than a little. Something told him that if the young captain got a hold of Jim Morgan, the unfortunate lad would end up far worse off than reading schoolbooks or singing in the church choir.
TWENTY–FOUR
he very same day that pallid Captain Cromier visited Constable Butterstreet’s small office, Jim, Lacey, and the Ratts made their way to the docks on the Isle of Dogs. It was still as cold as a winter day could be in London, but the sun was shining, giving the small clan at least a little warmth beneath their threadbare coats.
After Christmas, the Ratts had decided to come out of early retirement and return to thieving full time. This was good news for Jim and his hopes of finding the Amulet before King of Thieves could get his conniving hands on it. From what Jim and the Ratts had heard at the King’s court, and much to their delight, the Dragons had still failed to swipe the amulet from the old man who supposedly possessed it, and even better yet, it was rumored that the very same old man still lurked about London’s streets.
“I really don’t like the idea of going down here, even in the daytime,” Lacey worried as she crunched through the snow beside Jim.
“And I still for the life of me can’t figure out why,” George said, making sure to add a extra H sound to all of his vowels so he could see his breath steam in the cold air.
“Well, first of all, the docks are very dangerous,” Lacey said in her best mother voice. “My mum used to tell me it was full of all sorts of slimy characters. Pirates, killers, thieves, and even kidnappers.”
“Hold on a sec,” Jim interrupted. “Aren’t we thieves?”
“Not thieves like us, Jim!” Lacey started to get that spark in her blue eyes again, and Jim focused a little more on walking than on her face to diffuse the bomb before it exploded. “You know what I mean! And the second thing is that this is the area of town that the Dragons usually work, and we don’t want another run-in with them.”
“Dragons? Heh!” Paul said confidently. “I’m not worried about them.”
Jim laughed along with George and Peter at Paul’s bravado, but he shivered just a little bit harder all the same at the thought of Big Red unloading another fist into his face.
“Besides that,” Lacey continued with rolled eyes that simply proclaimed: boys are so stupid. “How are we even going to find one supposed old sea salt in an entire town’s worth of old sea salts?”
“Well, the king did say he would be at the Wet Rock,” Jim said hopefully. “And for some time too, by the sound of it.”
“Exactly!” said George. “We’ll just post up at the Inn of the Wet Rock and other spots all around there, and when we spot the old coot with the amu-what’s-it about his flabby old neck, we’ll give him the old Punch and Judy, nick the necklace, and be on our merry way!”
George made it all sound so easy that Jim smiled with hope and picked up the pace with a little added confidence, but, of course, Lacey immediately spoiled that happy-go-lucky moment with a dose of reality.
“If it were so easy, then don’t you think the Dragons would have stolen the medallion by now, hmmm?” She made her “hmmm” extra long to let Jim and George get a real sense of just how much longer she had thought about this situation than them. “Obviously not!”
“Oh, obviously, professor,” George sneered, jumping up to slap a snow-laden shingle so that it showered Lacey with snow. She stuck out her tongue in return (and not in the way to catch snow flakes.)
“Well, whatever the case,” Jim said, now balancing the encouraging thought of having the amulet stolen in a blink of an eye or dealing with a possible no-win scenario, “that amulet may be the only chance. At the best, if we get the amulet and I win the box back, I can open it myself with the amulet’s magic.”
“And at the worst?” Paul asked.
“If we get the amulet, maybe I can trade it for my box.”
“Even if that means that that old slimer, the King of Thieves, gets the key to untold treasures?” Lacey asked incredulously. Jim looked at his friend and for a brief moment, thought about telling her all he knew of the treasure, but once again failed to do so, something inside Jim preventing him from divulging what little he knew of his father’s secret just yet.
“Believe me, Lacy,” Jim said. “I’ll be more than happy to throw a wrench in that fiend’s plans. But I have to get my box back first. And if going to these docks and snatching this amulet from the old salt is the only way, then that’s the way I’m going.”
The Ratts cheered Jim on, but Lacey gave the back of Jim’s head a long and disapproving glare all the way down the next block and a half. Soon, however, they reached the docks, and it became immediately apparent that Lacey’s mother knew what she was talking about after all. The docks were packed end to end with the dirtiest scoundrels and cheatingest scum to ever carry swords and spyglasses on the decks of ships. It was by far one of the least appropriate places for children of the clan’s age to be wandering about by themselves. So, naturally, the Ratts loved every minute of it.
“Whoa! Look at that!” Paul exclaimed as a crusty old sailor hobbled past. Jim had no idea what was so spectacular about the man until he heard a peculiar click in place of the snowy crunch with the man’s steps. And there it was, an actual peg leg.
“Wicked!” Peter and George said, grinning ear to ear with delight.
“How dreadful!” Lacey shook her head with pity, but the Ratts and Jim were already absorbed in the other strange sights and sounds of the docks. They saw buccaneers with real eye patches, parrots and monkeys atop their shoulders. They stopped and listened to stories told over cups of warm ale, to circles of sailors gathered about fires, the boys sucking in every last detail of the adventures, full of magically induced storms, ghost ships that haunted the seas, mermaids, sirens, islands of native and wild warriors, treasure in unbelievable quantities, and dozens of other spectacles of the most unnatural sort.
At one point, George even risked a hearty “Arrgghh!” in greeting to a passing pirate.
“Arrgghh!” the scruffy sailor growled in return, and the boys fell all over themselves in giggling glee. Lacey wasn’t enjoying herself nearly as much as the others and walked sulkily behind them with her arms folded, scowling crossly. As much as the Ratts were loving the piratey madness of the docks, it wasn’t until the clan walked through a break in the crowd that a sight stole Jim’s breath straight out of his chest.
It came gliding toward the dock from out on the water, perhaps half-mile away, fresh on the river from the sea, visible only as a ghostly silhouette in the mist, its sails out and grabbing at the wind, billowing proudly over the deck, the bow pointed like an arrow toward the shore, slicing through the water like a happy fish swimming home. It was a great vessel of the ocean, a mighty ship of the sea.
Jim suddenly remembered the shore by his family’s home. He remembered running through the sand, a little wooden replica of the real-life ship before him in his hands. That memory skipped like a rock
on a pond through Jim’s mind and landed on another remembrance: standing on that same beach with his father for the last time. Jim remembered being so sulky then, wanting nothing to do with those long lost childhood adventures, and a lump formed in his throat. For now, having been thrown out into the wild world with no home and no family, something in his heart yearned to be on the deck of that ship with the waves beneath his feet, as though that would somehow bring him closer to the father he would never see again.
“Hey, Jim!” George called. “We’ve found the Wet Rock! Let’s go!”
The Wet Rock was just a warmer and smaller version of the docks outside. Fires burned in the stone hearths and packs of weary seamen gathered around their warmth to eat and share wild tales of adventures both true and invented from long journeys on the vast ocean. The children stood by the entrance and scanned the wide room. Lacey sighed and shook her head.
“Exactly what does this man look like again?” she asked with more than a hint of irritation.
“Well, he’s old,” George said.
“And crusty, most likely,” Peter added.
“Probably a bit shaggy and worn out, I’d guess,” Paul nodded.
“And I would think he would be wearing the amulet,” Jim said finally.
“Ah, yes,” Lacey said, nodding with a huge sarcastic grin on her face. “That definitely narrows the search down a bit. It should be only seconds before we find him in here. No one else fitting that description for miles!” She stomped her foot emphatically. “We’re never going to find him - this is ridiculous!”
“There he is,” Paul said just as Lacey was about to launch into a tirade of I-told-you-sos. Lacey followed Paul’s pointing finger, as did the others, and sure enough, sitting on a bench by a table full of the roughest and swarthiest pirates they had yet to see, was an old man with a white beard and shaggy white hair, wearing a faded blue and red greatcoat, a cracked and worn bandolier slung over his shoulder, sheathed in which was a rusty, dented cutlass. And sure enough, around his neck, hung the Amulet of Portunes, glimmering in the firelight.
Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves Page 16
